•CVNC-. 


W.  P.  FRITH,  R.A. 


MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


AND 


REMINISCENCES 


BY 

W.  P.  FRITH,  RA. 

CHEVALIER  Or  Till  LEGIO*  OF  HO.VOR  AM)  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  LEOPOLD  ; 

MEMBER   OF   THE    ROYAL   ACADEMY   OF   BELUICM,  AMD  OF  THE 

ACADEMIES  OF  STOCKHOLM,  VIK.XSA,  AND   ANTWERP 


'  The  pencil  tptakt  the  tongue  of  every  land  "" 

DRY  DEN 


NEW   YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1888 


TO 

MY  WIFE 

IN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OF  HER 
CONSTANT  SYMPATHY  AND  EVER  READY  HELP 

J  Debicate 

THESE  REMINISCENCES 

TO  THE  WRITING  OF  WHICH 

I  HAVE  BEEN  STIMULATED  BY  HER  BELIEF 

THAT  THEY  WILL  BE  OF  INTEREST 

TO  THE  GENERAL  READER 


U.C.LA 


CONTENTS. 


OUAPTCE 

I.    EARLY    DAYS, "        1 

II.    MY    FUTURE    DESTINY    DISCUSSED 7 

III.  MY    CAREER    DETERMINED       ........  15 

IV.  THE    SCHOOL    OF    ART 23 

V.    THE    LIFE    SCHOOL 40 

VI.    PRACTICE    IN    PORTRAIT-PAINTING 46 

vii.  "POSTING"  FROM  HARROGATB  TO  LONDON.  .  .  51 

VIII.    FIRST    ATTEMPTS    AT    "  SUBJECT-PICTURES "   ...  57 

IX.    MY    FIRST    SUCCESS i"  .  .       .       .       ..      .  66 

X.    ELECTED    AN    ASSOCIATE 82 

XI.    THE    "  OLD    ENGLISH    MERRY-MAKING  "       ....  88 
XII.    DINNER-PARTY    AT    LORD    NORTHWICK's      .       .       .       .103 

XIIL    ON    SUBJECTS 109 

XIV.    PICTURE-SEEING    IN    BELGIUM    AND    HOLLAND      .       .115 

XV.    SERVICE    OF    ART    IN    DETECTION    OF    CRIME  .       .       .  124 

XVI.    THE    "COMING    OF    AGE*' 130 

-  XVII.    SUBJECTS    FROM     GOLDSMITH,    SMOLLETT,    AND     MO- 

LIERE .  , 143 

XVIII.    THE    HANGING    COMMITTEE 153 

XIX.    HANGING     REMINISCENCES 166 

XX.    "  RAMSGATE    SANDS " 171 

xxi.  "THE  DERBY  DAY" 189 

XXII.    PORTRAIT    OF    CHARLES    DICKENS 213 

xxni.  SUCCESS  OF  "THE  RAILWAY  STATION"  ....  229 

xxiv.  "THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES".     .  235 

XXV.  THE  GREAT  ACTORS  OF  MY  YOUTH 255 

xxvi.  "THE  SALON  D'OR"  .  .271 


VI  CONTENTS. 

OIIAVIKU  PAGE 

XXVII.    REJECTED    SUBJECTS 289 

XXVIII.    THE    PIOUS    MODEL 309 

XXIX.    VISIT    TO    ITALY 315 

XXX.    THE    BEARDED    MODEL 332 

XXXI.    "  THE    ROAD    TO    RUIN  " 342 

XXXII.    THE    FONTHILL    STORY 353 

XXXIII.  "  THE    RACE    FOR    WEALTH  " 358 

XXXIV.  A    MYSTERIOUS    SITTER 369 

XXXV.    JOHN    FOR8TER    AND    THE    PORTRAIT    OF    CHARLES 

DICKENS 390 

XXXVI.    SECOND    VISIT    TO    THE    LOW    COUNTRIES       .       .       .  395 

xxxvu.  THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 399 

XXXVIII.  "  FOR  BETTER,  FOR  WORSE  " 406 

XXXIX.  MODELS THIEVISH 411 

XL.  "OLD  MASTERS" 414 

XLI.  A  SUCCESSFUL  DEALER 420 

XLII.  A  STRANGE  ADVENTURE 429 

XLIII.  MEN-SERVANTS 435 

XLIV.   "  THE  PRIVATE  VIEW  " 441 

XLV.  DR.  DORAN 446 

XLVI.  MY  LATER  PROFESSIONAL  WORK 453 

XLVII.  A  STRANGE  PURCHASE '  458 

XLVIII.  THE  CRAZY  ARTIST   .     .     , 464 

XLIX.  JOHN  LEECH 469 

L.  A  GHOST  STORY 474 

LI.  THE  STORY  OF  MY   PORTRAIT 480 

LII.  JENNY  LIND,  MR.  BARNUM,  AND  OTHERS    .     .     .  485 

LIII.  LADY    ARTISTS 488 

LIV.  PEOPLE  I  HAVE  KNOWN     .     .          493 


MY   AUTOBIOGKAPHY    AND 
REMINISCENCES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EARLY    DAYS. 

TIIOUGH  it  has  been  constantly  urged,  and  with  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  truth,  that  the  lives  of  painters  in 
their  somewhat  monotonous  course  present  but  little  or  no 
interest  when  told,  I  have  thought  that  if  the  painter  him- 
self were  to  be  the  historian,  and  he  were  to  describe  sim- 
ply and  truly  his  early  career  up  to  the  final  success  or 
failure  of  it,  he  might  point  a  moral,  though  from  want  of 
literary  ability  he  might  not  be  able  to  adorn  a  talc.  At 
the  present  date  I  have  passed  more  than  fifty  years  of 
artistic  life;  and  I  propose  to  relate  the  many  ups  and 
downs  of  it,  my  means  and  methods  of  study,  some  ex- 
periences of  great  difficulties,  and  the  way  they  have  been 
occasionally  surmounted,  together  with  matter  more  or 
less  interesting  arising  from  circumstances  connecting 
me  with  men  and  things  with  whom,  and  with  which, 
I  have  been  in  contact  in  the  progress  of  my  life  and 
work. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning,  I  was  born  on  the  9th  of 
January,  1819,  at  a  little  village  in  Yorkshire  called  Aid- 
field.  My  father  held  a  position  of  trust  in  the  family  of 
the  then  owner  of  Studley  Royal,  Mrs.  Lawrence.  He 
had  a  taste  for  art,  and  a  proficiency  in  the  practice  of  it 
which  proper  cultivation  would  have  improved  into  ex- 
cellence— as  many  of  his  drawings  still  in  my  possession 
1 


2  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

go  very  far  to  prove.  He  collected  engravings  and  pict- 
ures which,  were  poor  enough,  but  in  which  the  ignorance 
which  is  sometimes  bliss  enabled  him  to  see  merits  which 
did  not  exist;  and  it  was  this  passion  that  blinded  him 
into  thinking  that  a  wretched  drawing  done  by  me  when 
I  wras  about  eleven  years  old  showed  signs  of  a  genius 
worth  cultivating.  That  drawing  I  still  have:  it  is  a  copy 
from  Moreland  of  an  animal  that  might  have  been  a  dog 
under  the  hand  of  Moreland,  but  in  my  translation  of  it 
the  species  is  left  undetermined — anything  worse  or  more 
hopeless  it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine.  But  I  antic- 
ipate. I  have  no  very  early  recollections  interesting  to 
myself  or  anybody  else.  My  family,  consisting  of  two 
brothers  and  a  sister,  with  the  "parent  pair,"  left  Aldfield 
about  the  year  1826,  and  went  to  Harrogate,  a  well-known 
watering-place,  where  my  father  became  the  landlord  of  a 
large  rambling  inn  called  The  Dragon,  now  in  ruins.  It 
was  at  that  time  that  the  little  general  education  ever  al- 
lowed me  was  begun,  and  I  was  sent  to  school  at  Knares- 
borough. 

How  fortunate  is  the  present  generation  compared  with 
that  of  sixty  years  ago  !  How  great  the  change  for  the 
better — in  the  fact  of  such  schools  as  those  to  which  I  was 
sent,  all  more  or  less  of  the  "Dotheboys  Hall"  pattern, 
being  improved  off  the  face  of  the  earth — is  so  evident  as 
to  need  no  proof  from  me.  It  is  a  great  satisfaction  to 
me  to  feel  that  I  have  been  able  to  give  my  own  children 
such  educations  as  have  enabled  them  to  take  positions, 
and  to  do  work,  utterly  denied  to  me. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  it  was  on  a  winter's  even- 
ing in  1830  when  I  was  sitting  idly  looking  over  some  of 
my  father's  engravings — having  previously  obeyed  an  or- 
der from  my  mother  to  wash  my  hands,  as  those  members 
in  their  normal  condition  were  justly  considered  to  be  un- 
fit to  touch  those  precious  prints — that  I  asked  for  a  pen- 
cil and  paper,  and  tried  to  copy  an  engraving  of  a  dog. 
What  impelled  me  to  the  deed  which  actually  determined 
my  future  life  I  cannot  tell.  If  I  might  guess  at  the  mo- 
tive, I  think  it  was  merely  that  I  thought  it  would  afford 
me  a  chance  of  sitting  up  later  than  the  hour  of  the  chil- 


EABLY    DAYS. 

dren's  bedtime — rigorously  fixed  at  nine  o'clock — as  it  did, 
for  I  was  allowed  to  finish  my  wonderful  production  there 
and  then.  If  I  have  a  doubt  as  to  what  prompted  me  to 
my  first  work,  I  have  none  whatever  as  to  what  induced 
me  to  undertake  the  second. 

I  received  sixpence  for  the  dog,  with  a  promise  of  a 
similar  reward  for  another  effort.  From  that  moment, 
and  on  such  evidence,  I  was  considered  the  genius  of  the 
family,  and  schoolmasters  were  informed  that  all  other 
learning  must  be  considered  secondary  to  the  cultivation 
of  this  great  gift !  and  very  secondary  indeed  it  became. 
I  found  copying  Dutch  prints  much  easier  than  geography 
and  the  use  of  the  globes,  to  say  nothing  of  Latin,  for  a 
very  slight  experience  of  that  language  led  me  to  feel  that 
life  would  be  unendurable  if  I  were  compelled  to  learn  it; 
so  that  beyond  a  little  of  the  grammar,  and  the  acquisition 
of  a  few  quotations — which  I  find  useful  to  this  day  when 
I  desire  to  create  an  impression  that  they  are  but  samples 
of  a  wealth  of  the  classical  knowledge  that  I  possess — I 
know  nothing  whatever  about  it.  Greek  was  not  one  of 
the  accomplishments  taught  at  any  of  my  schools,  so  I  was 
spared  that  trouble.  My  education  was  finished  at  a  large 
establishment  at  St.  Margaret's,  near  Dover,  kept  by  a  very 
amiable  man  named  Temple,  who,  with  a  staff  of  ushers, 
boarded  and  educated  nearly  a  hundred  boys  for  twenty 
pounds  a  year  apiece.  I  really  believe  the  education  was 
quite  extraordinary  for  the  price  paid  for  it;  but  I  cannot 
speak  with  authority,  for  I  was  only  allowed  a  very  little 
of  it,  the  most  of  my  time  being  taken  up  with  my  eternal 
copying  in  chalks,  or  lead-pencil,  with  a  little  pen  and  ink 
for  a  change,  from  any  good,  bad,  or  indifferent  print  that 
fell  in  my  way.  I  was  placed  in  charge  of  the  drawing- 
master,  a  Frenchman,  with  strict  injunctions  to  allow  me 
to  do  as  I  liked;  and  these  injunctions  received  his  careful 
attention,  for  he  never  interfered  with  me.  Indeed,  I  soon 
found  that  his  knowledge  was  as  limited  as  my  own;  and 
it  will  scarcely  be  believed  when  we  see  the  system,  ad- 
mirable as  it  is,  which  is  now  almost  universally  adopted 
in  school-teaching,  that  in  my  early  days  bad  drawings  of 
impossible  landscapes,  and  still  more  outrageous  figures, 


4  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

were  the  only  models  placed  before  art  students,  who  made 
bad  worse,  and  only  learned  that  which  they  had  most 
studiously  to  forget  when  they  began  serious  work. 

I  remained  about  two  years  at  St.  Margaret's,  and,  ex- 
cept a  little  French,  I  learned  nothing.  There  were  sev- 
eral French  boys  from  whom  I,  nolens  volens  (here  you 
have  classical  example  number  one),  picked  up  a  little  of 
the  polite  language  of  the  world;  in  return,  I  endeavored 
to  instil  into  one  of  them  a  little  knowledge  of  the  manly 
art  of  self-defence  as  it  is  practised  in  tins  country.  There 
was  a  chronic  state  of  ill-feeling  between  the  French  and 
English  boys.  Waterloo  was  a  red  rag  which  we  pretty 
often  shook  in  their  faces;  frogs  were  sought  and  found 
in  the  ditches  about  St.  Margaret's,  and  also  in  the  beds  of 
the  French  boys,  who,  on  remonstrating,  were  accused  of 
ingratitude  for  complaining  of  gratuitous  gifts  of  their 
national  food.  I  forget  what  my  immediate  cause  of  quar- 
rel was  with  one  of  them  (a  long,  thin  fellow,  taller  than 
I) ;  whatever  it  may  have  been,  the  result  was  a  fight  be- 
hind a  haystack  in  a  neighboring  farmyard — that  is,  if  the 
affair  could  be  dignified  by  the  name  of  a  fight.  I  placed 
myself  in  the  posture  of  self-defence  with  which  I  was 
familiar  from  my  usual  source  of  information — engraving. 
My  adversary,  who  was  very  angry,  stared  at  my  projected 
fists  for  a  moment,  then  flew  at  me  like  a  cat,  scratching, 
kicking,  and  clawing  in  a  very  irregular  manner;  and  it 
was  only  after  a  desperate  struggle  to  free  myself  from 
his  long  legs  and  get  my  hair  out  of  his  clutches  with  some 
loss  of  it,  that  I  was  able  to  give  him  " one  on  his  peepers" 
(to  use  the  language  of  the  P.R.),  which  produced  a  very 
black  eye,  and  made  him  cry,  and  the  battle  was  over. 

This  was  my  first  and  last  fight. 

To  turn  from  war  to  peace,  it  must  be  evident  to  any 
thoughtful  person  who  may  be  improving  his  mind  by  read- 
ing these  pages,  that  my  art  studies  must  have  resulted  in 
a  very  large  heap  of  copies  from  prints,  but  never  in  an  at- 
tempt to  draw  anything  from  nature,  or  to  design  a  com- 
position from  imagination — an  element  of  mind  which  I 
might,  or  might  not,  possess,  but  without  which  success  in 
art  is  hopeless.  I  fancy  everybody  can  remember  the  ex- 


EARLY   DATS.  5 

qaisitc  delight  of  his  first  visit  to  a  theatre,  or  the  reading 
of  his  first  novel;  both  those  experiences  are  very  vivid  to 
me  at  this  moment.  Long  before  I  went  to  St.  Margaret's, 
when  I  was  very  young,  I  revelled  in  works  of  imagina- 
tion— the  novels  of  G.  P.  R.  James,  the  romances  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  and,  above  and  before  all,  the  works  of  Scott 
and  Cooper.  The  two  last  named  still  retain  their  charm 
for  me.  Mr.  James  I  have  tried  again,  but  the  old  love  is 
dead,  and  I  now  wonder  it  was  ever  born.  I  can  recall  the 
bright  pictures  with  which  the  Wizard  of  the  North  filled 
my  imagination.  Why  I  did  not,  as  a  boy,  try  to  repro- 
duce Rebecca  and  Ivanhoe,  or  Jeanie  Deans,  or  Madge 
Wildfire  (I  had  enough  of  them  afterwards),  however  im- 
perfectly, is  now  a  wonder  to  me — a  wonder  and  a  lesson — 
for  unless  my  sensibilities,  like  Miss  Squeers's,  "  came  late 
into  blow,"  I  could  have  done  something  in  the  shape  of 
original  work  instead  of  wasting  valuable,  irrecoverable 
time  in  profitless  copying.  I  know  very  well  that  I  never 
was,  nor  under  any  circumstances  could  have  become,  a 
great  artist;  but  I  am  a  very  successful  one,  and  my  ad- 
vice is  often  asked  by  anxious  parents  who  produce  speci- 
mens of  their  children's  work,  and  place  me  in  the  really 
awful  position  of  a  kind  of  destiny  over  the  future  of  their 
sons  or  daughters.  Let  me  advise  all  artists  who  may  find 
themselves  elected  arbiters  of  the  fate  of  others  to  be  as 
dumb  as  the  ancient  oracle  when  difficulties  were  presented. 
Except  in  the  rarest  and  most  exceptional  cases,  judgment 
from  early  specimens  is  absolutely  impossible.  Consider 
the  quality  of  mind  and  body  requisite  for  a  successful 
artistic  career — long  and  severe  study  from  antique  stat- 
ues, from  five  to  eight  hours  every  day;  then  many  months' 
hard  work  from  the  life,  with  attendance  at  lectures,  study 
of  perspective,  anatomy,  etc.;  general  reading  to  be  at- 
tended to  also — all  this  before  painting  is  attempted,  and 
when  attempted  the  student  may  find  he  has  no  eye  for 
color.  I  do  not  mean  color-blind,  which  is  of  course  fatal, 
but  that  he  is  not  appreciative  of  all  the  subtle  tints  and 
tones  of  flesh;  or,  what  is  more  fearful  still,  he  may  find 
that  he  has  .all  the  language  of  art  at  his  fingers'-ends,  and 
that  he  has  nothing  to  say.  I  illustrate  this  by  an  example 


6  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

of  one  of  my  fellow-students  at  the  Royal  Academy,  a 
young  fellow  named  Powell,  who  died  long  ago.  He  was 
highly  accomplished  in  many  ways;  he  drew  splendidly. 
His  studies  from  the  nude  were  the  admiration  of  student 
and  professor  alike.  He  gained  medals  in  all  the  schools, 
and  when  he  tried  to  turn  his  knowledge  to  account  and 
produce  pictures  he  failed  utterly.  Composition  and  ar- 
rangement of  the  colors,  and  light  and  shadow,  necessary 
in  a  group  of  more  or  less  figures,  cannot  be  taught,  or  if 
taught  by  line  and  rule  the  result  is  nil'  the  whole  thing 
is  a  matter  of  feeling  and  imagination.  An  artist  must 
see  his  picture  finished  in  his  mind's  eye  before  he  begins 
it,  or  he  will  never  be  an  artist  at  all.  Powell  could  not 
appreciate  the  difference  between  a  good  composition  and 
a  bad  one,  nor  could  he  understand  the  value  and  impor- 
tance of  light  and  shadow.  I  think  what  I  have  just  said 
is  worthy  the  attention  of  advised  and  advisers  alike,  and 
I  desire  to  impress  on  all  those  who  rely  upon  advice,  no 
matter  from  whatever  eminent  source,  that  the  risk  they 
run  is  terrible. 


CHAPTER  H. 

MY    FUTURE    DESTINY   DISCUSSED. 

I  NOW  go  back  to  my  own  career.  On  returning  home 
from  school  with  my  bundle  of  specimens,  a  family  coun- 
cil was  called,  with  friends  to  assist.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  any  one  of  them,  I  verily  believe,  that  I  was 
a  great  genius. 

"  Why,  just  look,"  said  an  old  woman  in  the  shape  of  a 
man,  "you  can't  tell  one  from  t'other!"  showing  a  print 
of  Teniers'  and  my  chalk  copy  from  it;  and  they  certainly 
were,  and  arc  (for  they  still  hang  and  can  be  compared  on 
my  staircase),  very  much  alike. 

I  was  the  wonder  of  High  Uarrogate,  then  my  home. 
People  came  and  asked  for  a  sight  of  the  wonderful  works, 
which  my  dear  mother  showed  with  a  pardonable  pride. 
She  could  not  and  did  not  ask  her  guests  to  wash  their 
hands — a  treatment,  as  I  remember,  desirable  for  some  of 
them  ;  but  she  would  never  let  the  drawings  leave  her 
own  hands,  for  fear  of  the  precious  things  being  rubbed 
or  otherwise  injured. 

"  If  I  was  you,"  said  one  wiseacre,  "  I'd  never  let  him 
have  any  teaching;  they'd  spoil  him.  Look  at  Mr.  Wilkie 
now,  the  man  that  did  the  'Blind  Fiddler'  and  that ;  he 
was  self-taught." 

"  No,  he  wasn't,"  said  my  father.  "  Don't  you  talk  of 
what  you  know  nothing  about." 

I  may  remark  here  that  my  father  was  a  gruff,  silent 
man,  but  by  no  means  such  a  fool  as  to  think  that  a  self- 
taught  artist  had  anything  but  a  fool  for  both  master  and 
pupil.  At  this  time  I  was  in  my  fifteenth  year,  and  it 
was  thought  desirable  that  my  future  career  should  be 
determined.  My  eldest  brother  had  died,  my  youngest 
one  was  intended  for  the  law,  and  I  for  the  arts  if  I  de- 


MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

cided  on  that  profession.  Parents,  in  nearly  all  instances 
that  have  come  within  ray  experience,  have  shown  marked 
and  often  angry  opposition  to  the  practice  of  art  as  a  pro- 
fession for  their  children;  naturally  and  properly,  I  think, 
considering  the  precarious  nature  of  its  pursuit.  My  par- 
ents were  exceptions  to  that  rule,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
my  father's  look  of  disappointment  when,  on  his  asking 
me  if  I  should  like  to  go  to  London  and  learn  to  be  a  real 
artist,  I  replied: 

"  I  don't  care  much  about  it." 

"  Well,  what  would  you  like  to  be  ?  You  must  do  some- 
thing for  your  living,  you  know." 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  an  auctioneer,  or  something 
of  that  kind." 

"An  auctioneer  be  !"  said  my  father,  who  used 

strong  language  sometimes. 

Itinerant  artists,  generally  portrait-painters,  wandered 
over  the  country  fifty  years  ago,  more  I  think  than  they 
do  now;  and  so  long  as  vanity  influences  the  human  being, 
there  will  be  work  for  the  limners  of  faces,  for  not  only 
do  the  sitters  satisfy  themselves  and  their  friends  with 
the  "counterfeit  presentment"  of  their  figures,  but  they 
fancy  themselves  encouragers  of  the  arts  as  well.  Fuseli, 
who  could  not  have  painted  a  decent  portrait  to  save  his 
life,  but  who  produced  works  of  a  weird  and  poetic  char- 
acter of  great  excellence  (which  rarely  found  purchasers), 
says  in  one  of  his  lectures,  after  abusing  portrait-painting 
as  a  low  kind  of  art,  "  Every  fool  who  has  a  phiz  to  ex- 
pose and  a  guinea  to  throw  away  thinks  by  the  expendi- 
ture of  that  small  sum  he  becomes  a  patron  of  art."  There 
was  a  goodly  crop  of  such  people  in  Yorkshire,  and  among 
the  reapers  was  one,  whose  name  I  suppress,  that  my  father 

took  me  to  see — a  Mr.  II ,  who  had  pitched  his  tent 

at  Knaresborough,  and  turned  a  large  drawing-room  over 
a  linen-draper's  shop  into  a  studio.  Judging  from  the 
number  of  finished  and  unfinished  portraits  on  easels  and 
against  the  walls,  the  artist  was  doing  a  good  stroke  of 
business.  To  me  they  were  "  too  lovely,"  to  use  a  collo- 
quialism of  to-day — one  of  a  stout  lady  in  emerald-green 
velvet  quite  won  my  heart,  and  I  really  felt  a  mild  desire 


MY    FDTUBK   DESTINY   DISCUSSED.  9 

to  do  likewise.  It  must  be  remembered  that  up  to  this 
time  I  bad  seen  no  modern  pictures,  but  only  tbe  ancient 
ones  in  my  father's  collection.  Those  were  very  dark,  so 
obscure  as  to  cause  one  of  our  Harrogate  friends  to  say 
that  he  "  didn't  care  a  button  for  the  old  masters,  for  you 
have  to  take  a  sponge  and  wet  'em  all  over  before  you 
know  what  the  subjects  are  about." 

Mr.  II 's  pictures  were  bright  and  lovely,  and  he  re- 
ceived a  commission  there  and  then  from  my  father  to 
paint  my  mother,  for  which  he  was  to  receive  twenty 
pounds  and  free  quarters  at  the  Dragon  during  the  prog- 
ress of  the  work.  I  was  allowed  to  watch  the  operation, 
and  all  our  friends  applauded  the  result.  My  mother  was 
the  one  unsatisfied — "  he  had  not  caught  her  expression," 
she  said,  and  she  was  right.  The  picture  is  now  in  the 
possession  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Granby  Hotel  at  Har- 
rogate,  where  I  saw  it  three  years  ago.  It  is  indeed  a 
forlorn  production,  without  one  quality  of  decent  art  in  it. 

Poor  II !  he  tried  his  fortune  in  London,  sent  picture 

after  picture  to  the  Academy,  and  never  got  one  exhibited. 

"  I  know  they  have  a  personal  spite  against  me,"  he 
said  to  me  one  day.  "And  look  at  their  own  infernal 

rubbish!    I  am  not  conceited"  (poor  II !).     "I  walked 

round  those  rooms"  (at  Somerset  House)  "and  compared 
my  own  work  with  what  is  there,  and  it's  enough  to  make 
a  man's  blood  boil  to  see  such  things  hung  and  such  as 
mine  rejected."  Then  after  a  pause  he  said,  "  Look  here, 
Frith — now  you  won't  mention  what  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  to  any  one;  oh,  I  know  you  won't — now  next  year  I 
shall  send  my  portraits  in  under  a  feigned  name,  'Alger- 
non Sydney,'  or  something  like  that,  and  then  you  will 
just  see  whether  those  men  are  honest  or  not;  for  I  have 
heard — in  fact  I  know — that  so  long  as  my  own  name  is 
attached  to  my  work,  it  will  never  be  admitted." 

Next  year  came,  but  "Algernon  Sydney"  came  not; 
no  such  name  could  be  found  in  the  catalogue. 

"  My  dear  II ,"  said  I,  on  meeting  him  shortly  after 

the  opening  of  the  Exhibition,  "did  you  send  your  pict- 
ures to  the  R.A.,  as  you  said  you  would,  under  a  feigned 
name  ?" 
1* 


10  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

'•  Yes,  I  did,"  said  he ;  "  but  the  ruffians  found  me  out, 
and  rejected  them  again,  of  course." 

H soon  fled  from  the  battlefield  where  he  was 

always  beaten  by  far  stronger  men,  and  became  quite  a 
favorite  portrait-painter  in  a  town  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land. There  he  married  one  of  his  sitters — a  very  hand- 
some girl  four-and-twenty  years  younger  than  himself — 
and  died  at  a  ripe  old  age  a  few  years  ago,  in  the  firm 
belief,  not  an  uncommon  one  among  disappointed  artists, 
that  he  had  been  ruined  by  the  Royal  Academy. 

As  my  father  and  I  returned  home  after  seeing  the 

H collection,  he  recurred  to  the  subject  of  my  future 

destiny. 

"  Surely  you  would  like  to  be  able  to  paint  such  pict- 
ures as  H 's,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  but  I  never  could ;  still,  I  will  try  if  you  wish  it." 

Not  much  of  the  sacred  fire  in  all  this,  not  much  of  the 
passion  for  art  which  Constable  once  stigmatized  in  a  man 
who  painted  very  poor  pictures,  and  who  claimed  a  right 
to  have  them  exhibited  because  painting  had  been  all  his 
life  a  passion  that  possessed  him.  "  Yes,"  said  Constable, 
"  a  bad  passion." 

Soon  after  this  my  father  showed  me  a  letter  from  Sir 
Launcelot  Shadwell,  who  was,  I  think,  vice-chancellor, 
and  who  had  been  one  of  the  visitors  at  The  Dragon  for 
several  seasons.  The  letter  was  in  reply  to  an  inquiry  as 
to  the  best  way  of  proceeding  in  the  event  of  my  study- 
ing as  an  artist.  Sir  Launcelot  had  seen  my  drawings, 
and,  being  pardonably  ignorant,  had  seen,  or  fancied  he 
saw,  not  only  promise,  but  such  performance  in  them  as 
would  make  much  instruction  unnecessary !  Mr.  Phillips, 
R.A.,  however,  a  friend  of  the  vice-chancellor's,  informs 
all  and  simdry  that  the  kind  of  drawing  described  to 
him  meant  nothing  ;  that  if  I  intended  to  follow  the 
profession  seriously  I  had  best  go  to  London  and  place 
myself  under  a  Mr.  Sass,  who  had  a  school  of  art  in  Char- 
lotte Street,  Bloomsbury;  and  after  I  had  worked  hard 
there  for  two  or  three  years,  I  might  possibly  become  a 
student  of  the  Royal  Academy,  where  I  should  find  ample 
and  gratuitous  instruction.  I  was  a  light-minded,  rather 


MY   FUTURE   DESTINY   DISCUSSED.  11 

idle,  flighty  youth,  not  at  all  fond  of  serious  work,  and 
this  letter  frightened  me.  I  told  my  father  I  did  not 
think  my  health  would  stand  such  work  as  that. 

"  What  do  you  mean — your  health?  What's  the  matter 
with  your  health  ?  You  have  never  been  ill  in  your  life, 
except  when  you  had  measles.  Don't  talk  such  stuff !  Now 
look  here,"  he  added ;  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously  " 
(he  seldom  talked,  and  always  seriously).  "  You  have 
your  living  to  get;  everybody  says  you  show  ability  for 
the  artist  business;  will  you  follow  it  ?  If  you  will,  I  shall 
take  you  to  London,  and  am  willing  to  spend  some  money 
on  it;  and  if  you  won't  do  this,  what  will  you  do  ?  If  you 
are  not  an  artist,  what  will  you  be  ?" 

I  had  been  two  or  three  times  to  an  auction-room,  and 
the  business  seemed  a  very  easy  and,  I  had  heard,  a  profit- 
able one;  so  instead  of  saying  I  would  die  rather  than  not 
be  a  painter,  I  reiterated  to  my  father  that  I  thought  I 
should  like  auctioneering  better.  Again  the  blank  look 
of  disappointment;  then,  after  a  pause,  he  said, 

"  Very  well,  will  you  agree  to  this?  You  and  I  will  go 
to  London.  I  will  take  your  drawings  and  show  them  to 
Sir  Launcelot  Shadwell's  friend  the  R.A.  If  he  says  you 
ought  to  be  an  artist,  will  you  go  to  this  Mr.  What's-his- 
name  in  Bloomsbury  and  learn  the  business  ?  If  he  thinks 
nothing  of  your  drawings,  I  will  apprentice  you  to  Oxen- 
ham's  in  Oxford  Street,  and  you  can  learn  auctioneering. 
Now,  what  do  you  say  ?" 

«  Very  well,  I  will." 

"  You  agree  to  what  I  propose  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  Now  go  and  tell  your  mother;  she  will  be  pleased,  I 
know." 

Before  I  take  leave  of  the  Dragon  Hotel,  an  incident 
which  created  an  ineffaceable  impression  on  my  youthful 
mind  may  be  related.  The  house  was  a  large,  rambling 
structure,  the  basement  consisting  of  a  bar,  a  kitchen  in 
which  the  giant  Blunderbore  might  have  regaled  himself, 
reception-rooms  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  and  a  ballroom  of 
enormous  length;  tp  say  nothing  of  parlors  rejoicing  in 
fancy  names,  such  as  "  The  Green,"  "  The  George,"  '« The 


12  MY   AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND   BEMINISCENCES. 

Bear,"  "  The  Angel,"  and  so  on.  The  sleeping  accommo- 
dation of  the  guests  consisted  of  rooms  of  various  sizes, 
on  each  side  of  very  long  and  narrow  passages,  dignified 
by  the  name  of  galleries,  which  started  in  different  direc- 
tions, from  no  special  point,  according  to  the  caprice  of 
the  builders,  to  whom  changes  and  additions  had  been 
intrusted  and  made  at  various  periods  during  more  than 
a  hundred  years.  The  rooms  were  destitute  of  bells,  but 
there  was  one  common  to  each  gallery.  It  was  about  the 
year  1828  or  1829  that  the  son  of  my  father's  banker,  ac- 
companied by  his  wife's  brother,  a  Captain  Rowe,  came 
to  Harrogate  in  the  hope  that  some  weeks'  experience  of 
the  fine  air  and  the  waters  might  restore  his  shattered 
health.  The  banker's  son,  whose  name  was  Owen,  had 
been  but  recently  married.  Mrs.  Owen  went  to  visit  some 
friends  in  the  South,  leaving  her  husband  to  the  care  of 
her  brother.  These  gentlemen  came  to  us  as  my  father's 
friends,  and  not  as  ordinary  guests  to  the  hotel.  They 
dined  with  us,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  day  of  their  ar- 
rival, my  brother  and  I  were  allowed  to  assist  at  a  round 
game  of  cards,  and  to  sit  up  much  beyond  our  usual  bed- 
time. We  were  ordered  off  at  last,  to  our  great  regret, 
for  both  the  guests,  especially  the  invalid,  made  much  of 
us,  and  winked  at  certain  boyish  tricks  which,  I  am  afraid, 
bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  cheating.  My  brother  and 
I  slept  together  in  a  room  made  from  an  odd  corner  sep- 
arated from  the  galleries.  We  were  no  sooner  in  bed 
than  we  were  both  fast  asleep.  How  long  I  had  been  in 
that  condition  of  "honeyed  slumber"  I  know  not,  but  I 
was  suddenly  aroused  from  it  by  a  fearful  cry — quite  un- 
like anything  I  have  heard  before  or  since.  I  jumped  out 
of  bed,  followed  by  my  brother,  and  we  opened  our  door 
in  time  to  see  two  white  figures,  one  flying  down  a  long 
gallery,  and  the  other  pursuing  and  uttering  yell  after 
yell.  They  disappeared  down  a  staircase,  and  in  the  di- 
rection of  a  room  in  which  I  knew  my  father  was  likely 
to  be,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  using  it  for  business  pur- 
poses— making  up  accounts  and  so  on — often  till  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning. 

My  brother  and  I  crept  down-stairs  in  mortal  terror, 


MY    FUTURE   DESTINY    DISCUSSED.  13 

and  saw  the  opon  door  of  my  father's  room,  in  which  a 
light  was  burning.  Except  for  the  violent  barking  of  a 
dog  that  seldom  left  my  father,  the  silence  was  unbroken. 
We  were  trying  to  see  into  the  room  when  one  of  the 
white  figures,  Captain  Rowe,  came  stealthily  up  to  us, 
literally  paralyzing  me  with  fear. 

"  Now  what  on  earth  are  you  boys  doing  out  of  bed  ? 
Go  back  this  moment." 

We  couldn't  move;  but  the  captain  went  cautiously  to 
the  door  of  the  room  and  looked  in.  His  naked  feet  could 
not  have  been  heard,  but  quicker  than  thought  a  terrific 
blow  was  struck  with  some  hard  substance  by  an  unseen 
hand,  accompanied  by  an  awful  cry. 

In  the  rapidity  of  his  exit  the  captain  had  pulled  the 
door  after  him,  thus  making  a  shield  for  himself  which  no 
doubt  saved  his  life.  He  rushed  up-stairs,  beckoning  us 
to  follow.  In  terror  and  tears  we  followed  him.  He 
pushed  us  into  our  room,  ordered  us  instantly  to  lock  our- 
selves in,  and  not  to  stir  again  till  the  servant  came  to  us 
in  the  morning.  Sleep  was  out  of  the  question.  From 
our  window  we  could  see  that  morning  had  come,  for  day 
was  breaking;  and  as  we  looked  we  heard  my  father's 
voice  calling  to  some  men  who  were  driving  a  cart  past 
the  house.  The  cart  stopped,  and  the  men  seemed  to  join 
my  father,  and  we  heard  no  more.  Presently  the  men  re- 
appeared, and  the  cart  was  driven  away.  Next  morning 
my  mother,  with  many  tears,  explained  the  mystery. 

Mr.  Owen  and  the  captain  went  to  sleep  in  a  double-bed- 
ded room.  The  captain  was  awoke  by  his  brother-in-law, 
who,  kneeling  upon  his  body,  was  endeavoring  to  strangle 
him.  Captain  Rowe,  by  far  the  more  powerful  man  of  the 
two,  flung  his  assailant  on  the  floor,  and  made  for  the  door, 
feeling  sure,  from  the  cries  and  wild  words,  that  sudden 
insanity  had  seized  his  friend.  The  door  was  locked,  and 
for  an  awful  instant — during  which  he  heard  the  madman 
at  the  fire-irons — the  key  refused  to  turn.  He  threw  his 
vast  strength  against  the  door,  and  burst  it  open.  Then 
began  the  flight  and  pursuit  that  we  witnessed.  Rowe 
made  his  way  accidentally  to  the  room  in  which  my  father 
sat,  closely  followed  by  Owen  armed  with  the  poker,  which 


14  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

afterwards  dealt  such  a  blow  to  the  parlor  door  as  to  mark 
it  for  many  years  (indeed,  till  it  was  replaced  by  a  new 
one).  The  sudden  light  seemed  to  dazzle  and  divert 
the  madman,  who  stood  quietly  in  my  father's  room,  star- 
ing at  the  dog,  who  fortunately  continued  to  bark.  My 
father  guessed  the  whole  business,  and  went  quietly  to  the 
window  and  opened  the  shutters.  Most  fortunately  at  the 
moment  a  cart  was  passing,  and  two  men,  called  by  my 
father,  came  through  the  window,  went  quietly  behind 
the  maniac — who  continued  staring  at  the  dog — pinioned 
him,  seized  the  poker,  and  threw  him  without  much  diffi- 
culty on  to  the  sofa.  My  father  pulled  down  one  of  the 
bell-ropes,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  poor  fellow  was 
harmless. 

Owen  never  recovered.  He  was  one  of  the  most  vio- 
lent patients  in  the  asylum  at  York,  where  he  afterwards 
died. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MY   CAREER   DETERMINED. 

IT  was  on  a  bleak  March  afternoon  in  1835  that  I  started 
for  London  to  make  my  fortune.  My  father  had  charge 
of  me  and  a  large  portfolio  of  drawings,  the  exhibition  of 
which  to  a  well-selected  judge  was  to  devote  me  to  art  or 
tie  me  to  an  auctioneer's  desk.  I  think  at  the  present 
time  an  express  train  requires  little  more  than  four  hours 
to  make  the  journey  from  Leeds  to  London — fifty  years 
ago  the  quickest  Royal  Mail  passage  occupied  never  less 
than  twenty-four  hours,  and  sometimes,  in  snowy  winter 
weather  especially,  much  longer ;  and  the  weariness,  the 
cramp,  the  sleeplessness  of  those  terrible  times  can  with 
difficulty  be  realized  by  the  luxurious  travellers  of  to-day. 
My  father  and  I  were  packed  inside  with  two  other  pas- 
sengers. 

"  Is  this  your  son,  sir  ?"  said  one. 

"  I  believe  so,"  replied  my  father. 

"Then  would  you  mind  asking  him  to  manage  his  legs 
a  little  better?  I  should  like  to  get  to  London  with  some 
skin  on  my  shins,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  the  young  gentle- 
man." 

We  entered  London  through  Highgate  Archway,  and 
my  first  impression  of  the  great  city  was  very  disappoint- 
ing— of  course  totally  unlike  the  grand  place  I  had  imag- 
ined. The  morning  was  foggy,  and  from  a  distance  Lon- 
don resembled  a  huge  gray  bank  of  fog,  with  the  dome  of 
St.  Paul's  rising  out  of  it;  and  when  we  entered  it  by  dirty 
Islington,  and  rattled  through  streets  each  uglier  and  dirt- 
ier than  the  last,  my  illusions  vanished. 

The  coach  stopped  at  the  Saracen's  Head,  on  Snow  Hill. 
Each  passenger  claimed  his  luggage.  My  precious  draw- 
ings had  been  preserved  in  a  folio  covered  with  some  ma- 
terial like  tarpaulin,  impervious  to  the  weather.  They 


1C  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

were  safe,  as  were  our  portmanteaus.  The  hotel  porter 
fetched  us  a  lumbering  hackney-coach,  driven  by  a  man 
whose  coat  of  many  capes  amazed  me.  Two  miserable 
horses  dragged  us  slowly  to  my  uncle's  house  in  Brook 
Street,  Grosvenor  Square. 

My  uncle's  name  was  Scaife,  and  he  became  my  uncle 
by  marrying  my  mother's  sister.  His  trade  was  that  of  a 
hotel-keeper.  Scaife's  Hotel  (now  Symonds's)  was  a  very 
fashionable  establishment,  and  my  aunt  and  uncle  were 
what  is  called  thorough  business  people,  with  a  contempt 
for  professions  generally,  and  for  the  artistic  in  particular. 

They  simply  thought  my  parents  insane  when  the  proj- 
ect of  my  embracing  the  disreputable  calling  was  broached, 
and  they  said  so.  My  uncle  was  a  shrewd  man  of  the 
world,  without  any  of  the  vices  that  so  often  disfigure  that 
character;  and  I  quite  believe  a  more  honorable  man  never 
lived,  and  he  was  respected  accordingly.  His  education 
had  been  more  neglected  than  mine,  the  result  being  a 
difference  of  opinion  with  Lindley  Murray,  and  a  disre- 
gard of  the  aspirate — except  where  it  should  never  be 
used — that  was  astounding. 

Though  my  aunt  and  uncle  disapproved  of  my  possible 
artistic  career  as  much,  or  more,  than  they  approved  of 
the  auctioneering  proposition,  they  heartily  welcomed  us 
to  their  home;  indeed,  to  the  last  days  of  their  lives  they 
were  kindness,  even  affection  itself,  to  me.  If  in  the  course 
of  my  history  I  may  touch  on  some  of  my  uncle's  peculi- 
arities, I  shall  treat  them  as  tenderly  as  if  I  loved  them, 
as  indeed  I  did. 

The  first  step  in  my  interest  that  it  was  necessary  to 
take  was  to  find  Mr.  Phillips,  or  some  other  eminent  ar- 
tist, upon  whose  verdict  my  fate — as  agreed  between  me 
and  my  father — was  to  be  decided.  Sir  L.  Shadwell  was 
away,  so  there  was  no  way  of  approaching  Mr.  Phillips, 
whose  title  of  R.A.  created  a  sensation  of  awe  in  my  fa- 
ther and  of  ridicule  in  my  uncle. 

"  R.  A.,  sir,"  said  my  uncle.  "  Why,  they're  as  poor  as 

rats,  the  lot  of  'em.  I  know  for  a  fact  that ,"  naming 

one  of  the  most  eminent  animal-painters  that  ever  lived, 
"  never  paid  for  a  dead  swan,  or  a  deer,  or  something,  that 


MY    CAREER   DETERMINED.  17 

be  got  from  that  place  in  the  New  Road;  and,  what  is 
more,  he  lodged  for  six  weeks  with  a  cousin  of  my  'ead- 
waiter,  and  ran  away  without  paying  a  farthing.  And 
that's  the  kind  of  thing  you're  going  to  bring  your  son  up 
to!" 

Another  judge  must  be  procured,  as  Mr.  Phillips  failed 
us;  and  my  father  soon  found  one  in  the  person  of  a  Mr. 
Partridge,  who  lived  a  few  doors  from  my  uncle's  hotel: 
a  portrait  and  history  painter  of  reputation,  and,  what 
was  more  to  our  purpose,  a  friend  of  many  of  the  members 
of  the  Royal  Academy.  Nothing  less  than  the  veto  of  a 
real  R.A.  would  satisfy  my  father  that  I  was  unworthy  of 
following  the  arts.  Mr.  Partridge  looked  at  my  drawings, 
and  gave  no  opinion  ;  but  he  kindly  allowed  my  father  to 
leave  the  portfolio,  telling  him  that  the  contents  should  be 
shown  to  the  brothers  Chalon,  both  academicians,  who 
were  engaged  to  visit  him  in  the  evening. 

With  what  trepidation  my  father  went  to  see  Mr.  Part- 
ridge the  next  morning,  and  with  what  an  air  of  triumph 
he  called  on  me  to  keep  my  promise,  I  well  remember; 
as,  indeed,  I  do  the  indifference  I  felt  about  the  whole 
thing. 

I  may  interpose  for  a  moment  here  to  complete  the  his- 
tory of  the  Messrs.  Chalon's  influence,  settling — as  their 
judgment  of  my  drawings  that  night  did — my  lifelong  ca- 
reer. Many  years  after  I  was  a  Royal  Academician,  Mr. 
Alfred  Chalon  (his  brother  had  died)  was  a  guest  at  my 
house,  and,  on  his  paying  me  a  passing  compliment  on  a 
picture  I  had  painted,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  thanking 
him  for  his  favorable  verdict  at  Mr.  Partridge's,  for,  said 
I,  "  if  it  had  not  been  for  you  I  should  not  have  been  an 
artist  at  all."  Chalon  looked  astonished,  and  then  said, 
"  Of  course  I  knew  Partridge,  but  I  can  remember  noth- 
ing like  what  you  charge  me  with."  I  tried  to  recall  the 
circumstances  to  his  memory.  I  described  the  drawings, 
told  him  the  date  of  the  transaction,  but  he  could  remem- 
ber nothing  of  it.  "  What  became  of  the  drawings  ?"  said 
Chalon.  "  I  have  them,  many  of  them  at  least,  and  could 
show  them  to  you."  "  I  wish  you  would,"  was  the  reply; 
and  the  drawings  were  produced.  The  old  artist  looked 


18  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

long  and  carefully  at  them,  evidently  trying  in  vain  to  re- 
member them  ;  at  last  he  said  :  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  I  ever  saw  those  things  before?"  "Indeed  you  did." 
"And  that  I  advised  that  you  should  be  trained  as  an 
artist  on  such  evidence  as  that  ?"  "  Indeed  you  did." 
"  Then,"  said  Chalon,  "  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself." 

"Mr.  Partridge  wants  to  talk  with  you,"  said  my  father. 
"You  will  be  delighted  with  him;  he  is  one  of  the  most 
elegant-mannered  men  I  ever  met — quite  the  gentleman — 
and  he  paints  such  lovely  pictures.  Why  he  isn't  an  R.A., 
I  can't  think." 

"  It's  because  he's  too  clever,  sir,"  broke  in  my  uncle. 
"  Why,  those  painters  are  that  jealous  of  one  another,  the 
wonder  is  the  whole  thing  don't  break  down  !  And  it 
will  some  day,  Master  William,  just  about  the  time  that 
you  are  ready  for  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  my  father,  "if  I  could  live  to  see  that  day!" 

"  What  day  ?"  said  my  aunt,  who  had  just  joined  us. 

"Frith  would  like  to  see  his  son  a  R.A.  at  Somerset 
House,  sooner  than  the  head  of  such  a  business  as  Oxen- 
ham's,"  said  my  uncle.  "  That's  the  sort  of  day  he  wants 
to  see,  good  Lord  !" 

If  my  father  heard  this,  he  never  replied  to  it,  but  or- 
dered me  to  go  with  him  at  once  to  Mr.  Partridge,  whom  I 
found  to  fulfil  all  my  father  had  said  of  him.  His  man- 
ners were  delightful,  copied,  I  was  told  afterwards,  a  good 
deal  from  those  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence;  but  nothing  but 
real  kindness  of  heart  could  have  influenced  him  when  he 
took  great  pains  to  instil  into  my  immature  mind  some 
first  principles  of  art,  taking  a  bust — the  Clytie,  I  think — 
as  his  text.  I  thought  it  was  beautiful  talk,  but  I  didn't 
understand  a  syllable  of  it.  Every  word  he  said  was  miles 
high  over  my  head.  He  talked,  among  other  things,  of 
"  breadth."  What  on  earth  did  he  mean  ?  In  the  light 
in  which  the  bust  was  placed,  he  said,  "Now  see  how 
broad  the  light  and  shade  is."  It  didn't  appear  broad  at 
all  to  me,  in  my  sense  of  the  word.  Tone,  too ;  what's 
tone  ?  thought  I.  I  know  the  tone  of  a  fiddle,  but  what 
tone  can  come  of  that  thing?  But  the  word  that  puzzled 
me  most  was  chiaro-oscuro ;  it  sounded  to  me  like  a  catch- 


MY    CAREER   DETERMINED.  19 

word  used  by  the  conjurers  whose  performances  I  had  seen 
at  Harrogate.  In  short,  I  was  thoroughly  bewildered,  and 
when  he  offered  to  lend  me  the  bust  to  draw  from,  I  fer- 
vently hoped  it  would  get  broken  in  its  transit  to  my 
uncle's;  but  it  did  not.  It  was  taken  up  into  a  bedroom. 
A  drawing-board,  paper,  and  chalk  were  given  to  me,  and 
I  was  left  alone  with  the  dreadful  thing. 

I  stared  at  it  with  a  stare  as  stony  as  its  own  for  some 
time,  and  then  I  tried  to  draw  from  it;  to  take  its  likeness, 
in  fact.  I  could  make  nothing  of  it.  I  could  not  get  my 
attempt  to  look  in  the  least  like  a  human  head.  I  tried 
and  tried — all  in  vain ;  so  I  put  down  my  port-crayon  and 
had  a  good  cry,  in  the  midst  of  which  my  father  came  into 
the  room. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  can't  you  manage  it  ?" 

"  No;  I  never  could  if  I  tried  for  a  year." 

"Well,  never  mind;  give  it  up  then.  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I  have  just  returned  from  the  School  of  Art  in 
Charlotte  Street,  Bloomsbury,  kept  by  Mr.  Sass,  and  have 
arranged  for  you  to  go  there  in  a  few  days.  He  has  a  lot 
of  pupils.  He  took  me  all  over  the  place — splendid  place 
— large  gallery  filled  with  casts — some  like  that,  others  big 
figures  as  large  as  life  and  larger:  every  means  for  the 
study  of  the  profession,  Mr.  Sass  says.  You  are  to  live  in 
the  house,  board  with  the  family,  and  I  think  you  will  be 
very  comfortable.  There  is  another  in-door  pupil  older 
than  you,  '  very  advanced,'  Mr.  Sass  says." 

"  Is  Mr.  Sass  a  very  gentlemanly  man  like  Mr.  Part- 
ridge ?  Does  he  talk  as  he  did  ?  What  does  he  mean  by 
the  other  boy  being  'very  advanced  Pn 

This  was  rather  a  poser.  After  a  few  moments'  thought, 
my  father  said: 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Sass  meant  the  young  man  had  got  on 
a  good  deal  in  consequence  of  his  teaching,  which  you  can 
do  if  you  like  to  work  hard." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  the  play,  one  of  the  big  theatres; 
may  I  ?" 

"  Well,  we  will  see.  You  mustn't  keep  your  uncle  and 
aunt  up  late,  you  know." 

There  were  some  days  to  elapse  before  I  should  be  con- 


20  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

signed  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Sass,  and  the  hard  labor  to  which 
I  felt  I  was  condemned,  and  these  were  devoted  to  amuse- 
ment. I  was  taken  to  the  Adelaide  Gallery,  where  a 
steam-gun  discharged  a  hundred  bullets  every  minute — a 
terrific  weapon.  The  man  who  showed  it  gave  a  kind  of 
lecture  upon  it;  assured  the  audience  that  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  came  to  see  it  the  day  before  yesterday,  and 
told  the  speaker  that  if  he  could  have  had  the  benefit  of 
the  steam-gun  at  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  that  engagement 
would  have  been  over  "in  about  half  an  hour,  instead  of 
lasting  all  day."  He  also  said  that  all  the  regiments  in 
our  present  army  would  be  furnished  with  steam-guns,  and 
it  was  expected  in  consequence  that  there  would  be  no 
more  fighting.  The  Adelaide  Gallery  and  the  steam-can- 
non are  no  more;  the  fighting  continues. 

And  then  the  theatre.  The  first  play  I  saw  was  Shake- 
speare's "  King  John."  Macready  was  the  King;  Charles 
Kemble,  Faulconbridge;  Mrs.  Warner,  I  think,  Constance. 
Can  I  ever  forget  it,  or  my  delight  in  it  ?  My  father 
quarrelled  with  a  man  who  sat  next  us  in  the  pit  because 
he  chose  the  moment  when  Constance  moved  the  house  to 
tears  to  disturb  the  silence — only  broken  by  half-stifled 
sobs — by  sucking  an  orange  in  a  loud,  slobbery  fashion. 
When  the  queen  retired,  and  the  house  was  gradually  re- 
suming its  equanimity,  my  father  turned  to  his  neighbor, 
and,  wiping  his  own  eyes,  said: 

"  Well,  you  didn't  seem  to  be  affected  by  the  acting  of 
that  scene  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Why  should  I  ?"  replied  the  man.  "  It  isn't  true;  and 
if  it  was,  it's  nothing  to  me." 

"You  are  a  nice  man  to  come  to  the  play  and  disturb 
other  people.  Why  can't  you  suck  your  oranges  at  home  ? 
you'd  find  it  cheaper." 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  man,  opening  a  handkerchief  and 
showing  a  nest  of  oranges,  "  I  shall  put  away  all  those  be- 
fore I  go ;  and  if  you  object,  you  had  better  move  into  a 
private  box." 

My  father's  temper  was  short,  like  himself,  and  the 
quarrel  grew  till  the  audience  interfered,  and  the  call  to 
both  to  "  shut  up  "  was  obeyed.  I  shall  not  allow  the  fear 


MY   CAREER   DETERMINED.  21 

of  being  charged  with  the  laudatur  temporis  acti  disposi- 
tion to  prevent  me  from  asserting  that  no  such  acting  as 
Macready's  King  John,  or  Kemble's  Faulconbridge,  can 
be  seen  on  our  stage  now.  Macready's  fearful  whisper — 
when,  having  placed  his  mouth  close  to  Hubert's  ear,  and 
dropping  his  half-hearted  hints  of  his  desire  for  Arthur's 
death,  he  throws  off  the  mask,  and  in  two  words,  "the 
grave,"  he  makes  his  wish  unmistakable — was  terrific:  the 
two  words  were  uttered  in  a  whisper  that  could  be  heard 
at  the  back  of  Drury  Lane  gallery,  and  the  effect  was  tre- 
mendous. You  felt  as  if  you  were  assisting  at  a  terrible 
crime.  The  grace  and  gallantry  of  Faulconbridge,  as 
Charles  Kemble  acted  the  character,  were  unapproachably 
delightful ;  and  of  the  tone  in  Avhich  he  repeated  again 
and  again  to  Austria,  "And  hang  a  calf-skin  on  those  rec- 
reant limbs,"  no  description  can  give  an  idea.  Then  his 
swagger  into  Angers  after  the  famous  scene  which  leads 
to  the  surrender  of  the  town !  I  can  see  him  now,  as,  with 
the  elegant  saunter  appropriate  to  the  character,  he  dis- 
appears under  the  portcullis,  and,  the  place  being  new  to 
him,  be  looks  to  the  right  and  left  with  the  insolence  of  a 
conqueror.  His  Mercutio,  Don  Felix,  Cassio,  Charles  Sur- 
face, were  simply  perfect.  My  father  was  as  fond  of  the 
play  as  I,  and  I  was  indulged  till  my  uncle  began  to  look 
a  little  black  at  our  late  hours. 

I  shall  only  mention  one  theatre  more — that  managed 
by  Madame  Vestris,  then  in  the  zenith  of  her  beauty.  I 
fell  madly  in  love  with  her  at  once,  and  would  have  flown 
far  away  from  Sass  and  the  studio,  as  he  called  it  (I  was 
just  sixteen),  if  I  could  have  induced  that  lovely  being  to 
be  my  companion.  It  was  at  the  Olympic,  in  Wych  Street, 
where  the  enchantress  held  her  nightly  revels. 

"  Oh,  father  !"  I  remember  exclaiming  when  she  first 
burst  upon  the  stage  and  me;  "  isn't  she  a  beautiful  creat- 
ure ?" 

"  Eh— what  ?    You  attend  to  the  play  and  don't  talk." 

And  there  was  Listen,  and  Oxberry,  and  Mrs.  Orger, 
and  Charles  Mathews,  whose  first  appearance  I  did  not 
witness,  for  he  had  played  three  nights  before  I  saw  him, 
in  "The  Old  and  Young  Stager" — Listen  playing  the  old 


22  MY   AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

coachman  with  the  many-caped  coat,  and  Mathews  a  young 
groom,  I  think. 

It  is  time  for  me  to  cease  this  holiday-talk,  and  go  to 
work  and  to  Sass's  care,  to  which  on  one  memorable  even- 
ing I  was  confided.  My  father  beguiled  the  walk  down 
Brook  Street,  down  Oxford  Street,  through  Han  way  Yard, 
along  Great  Russell  Street,  to  my  future  home,  with  much 
fatherly  warning  and  advice;  I  all  the  while  wondering 
how  much  pocket-money  he  was  going  to  allow  me,  how 
much  money  I  was  to  be  trusted  with  for  ordinary  ex- 
penses, whether  I  was  to  order  and  pay  for  my  own 
clothes,  etc.  A  feeling  possessed  me  that  I  was  afloat  in 
the  world,  and  that  I  ought  to  be  trusted  to  manage  my 
pecuniary  affairs,  for  which  I  felt  the  capacity  of  chan- 
cellor of  the  exchequer.  As  nothing  on  the  subject  was 
volunteered  by  my  father  until  we  both  stood  on  the  door- 
step of  No.  6  Charlotte  Street,  under  the  bust  of  Minerva, 
which  to  this  day  looks  down  on  the  passer-by,  I — being 
possessed  at  the  moment  of  a  very  few  shillings  and  a  half- 
sovereign  wrapped  up  in  paper,  on  which  my  mother  had 
written  "  A  friend  in  need  " — ventured  to  ask  how  much 
money  he  was  going  to  give  me  for  the  many  expenses  I 
must  incur  beyond  the  sum  paid  for  my  board  and  lodging 
and  tuition.  I  shall  never  forget  my  bitter  disappoint- 
ment at  being  told  that  I  must  get  an  account-book,  into 
which  every  item  of  my  expenditure  must  be  entered  ; 
that  I  must  be  satisfied  with  £2,  which  he  handed  to  me, 
and  when  that  was  accounted  for  to  the  satisfaction  of  my 
uncle,  that  treasurer  would  advance  me  £2  more.  To  a 
young  person  who  expected  to  have  the  immediate  con- 
trol of  a  considerable  income  this  was  a  blow,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  confess  that  I  bore  it  so  badly  as  to  show  my 
disappointment  by  bursting  into  tears — tears  not  drawn 
from  me  only  by  financial  disappointment,  but  I  would 
fain  think  as  much,  or  more,  by  the  pangs  of  separation. 
As  we  parted,  my  father  kissed  me — I  can  feel  now  the 
rough  scrub  of  his  shaven  chin — and  I  passed  under  a  roof 
which  sheltered  me  for  the  following  two  years. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE     SCHOOL     OF     ART. 

MB.  HENRY  SASS  was  a  student  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  a  contemporary  of  Wilkie,  Mulready,  Haydon,  and 
many  others  less  known  to  fame,  all  of  whom  continued 
his  steadfast  friends,  supplying  him  now  and  again  with 
pupils  whose  education  those  distinguished  men  were  too 
busy  to  undertake.  Though  Mr.  Sass  thoroughly  under- 
stood the  principles  of  art,  and  could  most  efficiently  in- 
culcate them,  he  never  succeeded  in  putting  them  satisfac- 
torily into  practice  on  his  own  account.  His  pictures  were 
coldly  correct,  never  displaying  an  approach  to  the  sacred 
fire  of  genius,  and  almost  always  unsalable.  Under  these 
circumstances,  and  warned  by  an  increasing  family,  Mr. 
Sass  established  his  School  of  Art,  at  that  time  the  only 
one  existing.  The  duties  of  the  school  fully  occupied  the 
master's  attention,  leaving  him  time  only  to  exhibit  occa- 
sionally at  Somerset  House,  and  then  only  a  small  picture 
always  called  "A  Study  of  a  Head;"  and  even  this  mod- 
est contribution  was  not  allowed  to  escape  the  malignity 
of  the  critics,  one  of  whom,  in  his  general  notice  of  one  of 
the  annual  exhibitions,  said:  "  Mr.  Sass  continues  to  exhib- 
it a  study  of  something  which  he  persists  in  calling  a  head." 

It  was  the  firm  and  settled  conviction  of  my  master  that 
the  neglect  of  the  public,  so  unmistakably  displayed  tow- 
ards his  work,  was  the  result  of  the  dense  ignorance  of  the 
so-called  patrons  of  art;  it  was  also  his  conviction  that  if 
he  could  have  afforded  to  devote  himself  to  the  practice 
of  art  instead  of  the  teaching  of  it,  he  could  have  grasped 
the  highest  honors  of  the  profession.  Dear  old  Sass  !  I 
think  he  was  wrong.  It  ought  to  have  been,  and  it  was,  a 
consolation  to  him  to  feel  that  by  instilling  his  admirable 
principles  into  others  he  gave  them  ample  means  of  achicv- 


24  MY    AUTOBIOGBAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

ing  a  success  denied  to  himself.  Many  of  his  pupils  be- 
came painters  of  high  reputation,  several  were  afterwards 
Academicians,  and  one  and  all,  I  feel  sure,  would,  if  death 
had  not  sealed  so  many  lips,  endorse  all  I  have  to  say  in 
favor  of  the  admirable  art-teaching  of  Henry  Sass.  I  may 
mention  here  one  distinguished  man,  my  old  friend  Millais, 
who  was  Sass's  pupil,  though  only  for  a  short  time,  I  think. 
His  remarkable  powers  enabled  him  to  enter  the  Royal 
Academy  Schools  per  saltiim;  and  I  can  well  remember 
the  amusement  of  the  students — some  of  whom  were  then, 
as  now,  almost  middle-aged  men — when  a  little  handsome 
boy,  dressed  in  a  long  blue  coat  confined  at  the  waist  by  a 
black  leather  band,  walked  into  the  Antique  School  and 
gravely  took  his  place  among  us.  This  was  my  first  sight 
of  Millais,  for  I  had  left  Sass's  and  become  an  R.A.  student 
a  year  or  two  before  the  appearance  of  my  young  friend. 
But  to  return  to  my  early  work.  In  the  opening  lines  of 
these  reminiscences  I  have  said  that  I  hoped  to  point  a 
moral,  by  which  I  meant  that  much  that  I  might  have  to 
tell  would  be  of  use  to  future  students,  either  in  the  form 
of  warning  or  encouragement. 

Reynolds  says,  "You  must  have  no  dependence  on  your 
own  genius;  if  you  have  great  talents,  industry  will  im- 
prove them;  if  you  have  but  moderate  abilities,  industry 
will  supply  the  deficiency."  Another  writer  says,  "  Genius 
means  the  power  of  taking  great  pains."  I  don't  think 
either  of  those  great  men  could  have  been  quite  serious, 
or  could  have  intended  their  advice  to  be  taken  literally, 
but  rather  to  enforce  the  absolute  necessity  of  hard  work. 
Would  the  severest  application  have  produced  a  Raphael 
or  a  Hogarth?  No.  But  neither  Raphael  nor  Hogarth 
could  have  produced  their  immortal  works  without  the 
exercise  of  painful  industry;  and  when  is  the  time  for  that 
exercise?  In  healthy  youth  —  a  time,  alas!  when  tempta- 
tion to  idle  pleasure  is  most  difficult  to  resist.  No  artist 
who  has  arrived  at  mature  age  can  look  back  at  his  early 
opportunities  without  a  remorseful  sense  of  his  neglect  of 
many  of  them.  I  can  even  accuse  myself,  fool  that  I  was, 
of  feeling  contempt  for  the  scrupulous  attention  insisted 
on  by  my  master  to  details  that  seemed  to  my  youthful 


THE   SCHOOL    OF    ART.  25 

wisdom  to  be  absurdly  unimportant.     I  know  better  now, 
and  suffer  justly  for  my  folly. 

Sass's  course  of  study  was  very  severe;  my  precious 
drawings  were  looked  at  and  remarked  upon  by  the  mas- 
ter, to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  in  the  following  words: 
"  Ah,  copies  from  Dutch  prints!  Shouldn't  wonder  if  you 
turn  out  eventually  to  take  to  engraving.  Whatever  in- 
duced you  to  spend  time  in  doing  such  things?  Terri- 
ble waste.  Can't  have  done  you  much  harm  if  you  can 
contrive  to  forget  all  about  them.  You  will  spend  your 
evenings  here  in  studying  the  compositions  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  other  great  artists.  You  will  find  a  large  col- 
lection in  my  library,  but  no  Dutch  prints." 

The  master  had  prepared  with  his  own  hand  a  great 
number  of  outlines  from  the  antique,  beginning  with 
Juno's  eye  and  ending  with  the  Apollo  —  hands,  feet, 
mouths,  faces,  in  various  positions,  all  in  severely  cor- 
rect outline.  The  young  student,  beginning  with  Juno's 
eye,  was  compelled  to  copy  outlines  that  seemed  num- 
berless ;  some  ordered  to  be  repeated  again  and  again, 
till  Mr.  Sass  could  be  induced  to  place  the  long-desired 
" Jiene"  at  the  bottom  of  them.  This  course,  called 
"drawing  from  the  flat,"  was  persisted  in  till  the  pupil 
was  considered  advanced  enough  to  be  allowed  to  study 
the  mysteries  of  light  and  shade.  A  huge  white  plaster 
ball,  standing  on  a  pedestal,  was  the  next  object  of  atten- 
tion, by  the  representation  of  which  in  Italian  chalk  and 
on  white  paper  the  student  was  to  be  initiated  into  the 
first  principles  of  light,  shadow,  and  rotundity.  The  effect 
to  be  produced  by  a  process  of  hatching.  No  stumps — 
objects  of  peculiar  horror  to  our  master — were  allowed. 
Sass's  hatred  of  the  stump  gave  rise  to  a  ribald  but  admir- 
able caricature  by  one  of  the  students,  who  drew  the  pro- 
fessor (a  wonderful  likeness  of  him)  in  the  infernal  regions, 
surrounded  by  boy  demons  (supposed  to  be  old  pupils  cut 
off  in  their  early  career),  tormenting  him  with  stumps  to 
all  eternity.  The  drawing  was  carefully  kept  out  of  the 
master's  sight,  and  well  for  the  student  it  was,  for  his  ex- 
pulsion would  certainly  have  followed  any  glimpse  that 
irascible  individual  might  have  got  of  it. 
2 


26  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I  spent  six  weeks  over  that  awful  ball  (the  drawing  exists 
still,  a  wonder  of  line- work),  the  result  being  a  certain 
amount  of  modelling  knowledge  very  painfully  acquired. 
Then  came  a  gigantic  bunch  of  plaster  grapes,  intended  to 
teach  differences  of  tone  (I  soon  learned  what  tone  meant) 
in  a  collection  of  objects,  with  the  lights  and  shadows  and 
reflections  peculiar  to  each.  How  I  hated  and  despised 
this  second  and,  I  thought,  most  unnecessary  trial  of  my 
patience  !  but  it  was  to  be  done,  and  I  did  it.  Then  per- 
mission was  given  for  an  attempt  at  a  fragment  from  the 
antique  in  the  form  of  a  hand.  Thus  step  by  step  I  ad- 
vanced, till  I  was  permitted  to  draw  from  the  entire  figure. 
How  I  regret  that  I  did  not  exert  myself  to  draw  more 
figures  and  more  carefully  !  but  the  severity  tried  me  very 
much,  and  I  felt  very  weary  and  indifferent.  I  could  feel  no 
interest  in  what  I  was  about.  Perspective  bewildered  me, 
and  to  this  day  I  know  little  or  nothing  about  that  dreadf  ul 
science;  and  anatomy  and  I  parted  after  a  very  short  and 
early  acquaintance.  I  am  relating  the  true  history  of  my 
early  days,  and  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  for  the  kind 
of  art  I  have  practised,  very  little  perspective  and  anatomy 
are  required;  but  the  neglect  with  which  I  treated  those 
acquirements  would  be  fatal  to  the  artist  who  may  be  pur- 
suing the  highest  branch  of  art. 

All  my  evenings  were  passed  in  making  outlines  from 
Michael  Angelo's  "Last  Judgment,"  the  wonderful  car- 
toon of  Pisa,  and  other  work  from  that  immortal  hand, 
together  with  studies  from  other  old  masters  —  Guercino, 
the  Caracci,  Poussin,  and  the  like.  After  two  years' 
working  from  the  antique — I  can  scarcely  call  it  study,  so 
ever  to  be  regrettedly  perfunctory  were  my  doings — I  was 
allowed  "to  try  for  the  Academy;"  and  to  my  surprise 
and  the  astonishment  of  my  master,  I  was  admitted  as 
probationer.  But  before  I  tell  of  my  experience  in  that 
capacity,  I  will  try  to  describe  the  school  and  students  at 
Sass's  as  they  existed  in  the  reign  of  that  professor.  A 
door  on  the  left,  as  you  entered  the  house,  opened  upon  a 
passage  shut  off  by  curtains  at  the  bottom  of  it  from  a 
large  circular  hall  lighted  from  the  top,  in  which  were 
placed,  in  an  angle  of  light  copied  from  the  Pantheon  at 


THE    SCHOOL    OP   ART.  27 

Rome,  statues,  the  size  of  the  originals,  of  the  Laocoon, 
the  Apollo,  the  Venus  de  Medici,  and  other  famous  antique 
works.  The  passage  through  which  the  gallery  was  en- 
tered was  lined  with  drawings  done  by  favorite  and  suc- 
cessful pupils.  Facing  the  passage  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gallery  was  a  staircase  leading  to  an  upper  school,  much 
smaller  than  the  lower  gallery,  but  built  precisely  on  the 
same  plan  —  circular  —  and  lighted  d  la  Pantheon,  heated 
by  hot-water  pipes  "  hermetically  sealed."  Below  the  up- 
per gallery  were  small  studios  occupied  by  private  pupils, 
of  whom  I  can  only  remember  one,  the  late  Sir  William 
Knighton,  sent  to  the  school  by  Wilkie,  and  afterwards 
an  assistant  of  that  great  painter  in  some  of  the  details 
of  his  works.  Old  students  at  Sass's,  several  of  whom  are 
living,  will  remember  his  description  of  the  angle  of  forty- 
five  degrees  copied  from  the  lighting  of  the  Pantheon  at 
Rome,  the  hermetical  sealing  of  the  water-pipes,  and  the 
rest  of  it,  which  he  repeated  to  succeeding  visitors,  friends, 
or  parents  of  pupils,  always  exactly  in  the  same  words; 
and  how  droll  it  was  to  hear  him  go  through  his  first  in- 
structions to  new  pupils  in  precisely  the  same  manner, 
words,  intonation,  everything,  as  he  had  administered  them 
to  yourself  only  a  week  or  two  before  !  Hogarth's  well- 
known  illustration  of  the  power  of  single  lines  he  invaria- 
bly inflicted  on  the  new  proselyte  at  the  moment  he 
thought  it  most  appropriate,  always  at  the  same  point  in  a 
given  lesson. 

"  Now  to  illustrate  what  I  say,  I  shall  draw  a  soldier, 
his  gun,  and  his  dog  in  three  lines,"  and  he  proceeded  to 
do  it  thus:  "There  is  the  public-house  door,"  making  a 
perpendicular  line;  "there  is  the  man's  gun,"  making  a 
stroke  at  his  favorite  angle  near  the  top  of  the  door;  "and 
there  is  the  dog's  tail,"  making  a  little  curve  near  the 
bottom  of  the  straight  line;  ending  his  lecture  always  by 
the  words,  "Don't  laugh;  there  is  nothing  to  laugh  at." 
This  was  invariably  said,  whether  the  student  laughed  or 
not. 

Mr.  Sass,  like  many  other  folks,  had  his  peculiarities; 
he  was  somewhat  passionate,  and  knowing  that  his  pas- 
sion, unless  checked,  would  betray  him  into  unseemly  vio- 


28  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

lence,  he  made  it  a  rule  to  retire  instantly  from  the  cause 
of  offence,  and  force  himself  to  pause  a  few  moments  be- 
fore he  resented  it,  which  he  then  did  with  dignified  sever- 
ity. To  illustrate  this,  I  recall  an  incident  in  which  I  un- 
consciously offended.  An  eclipse  of  the  sun  took  place, 
and  the  young  Sasses  and  I  went  on  to  the  roof  of  the 
house  by  means  of  a  trap-door,  to  look  at  the  sun  through 
bits  of  smoked  glass.  I  was  enjoying  the  sight,  and  at 
the  same  time  breaking  the  tiles  with  my  feet,  when  I  was 
interrupted  by  what  seemed  to  be  a  fearful  oath.  I  looked 
down  just  in  time  to  see  the  rapidly  descending  head  of  my 
master.  I  saw  the  cause  of  the  explosion,  and  waited  in 
trepidation  for  the  return  of  the  head.  In  about  two  min- 
utes it  slowly  reappeared,  and  stopped  where  it  was  on  a 
level  with  the  broken  tiles.  "  Did  it  strike  you,  Frith — it 
ought  to  have  struck  you,  and  if  it  had  knocked  you  down 
I  should  have  been  pleased — that  you  were  destroying  the 
roof  of  my  house  in  your  absurd —  Henry  !" — suddenly 
seeing  his  son's  shoes  had  been  also  destructive — "  why, 
you  confound — "  and  down  went  the  head  again,  and 
more  calming  time  was  required  and  taken,  the  finale  be- 
ing an  announcement  that  Henry's  pocket-money  should 
suffer  for  his  misdoings,  and  my  father's  purse  for  mine. 
Reflection  must  have  softened  the  ireful  decision,  for  I 
never  heard  any  more  of  it. 

Sass's  veneration  for  the  antique  amounted  almost  to 
worship,  and  anything  like  an  insult — and  a  very  small 
matter  took  that  shape  in  his  eyes — was  fiercely  resented. 
On  one  occasion  I  left  some  dirty  paint-brushes  on  the 
plinth  on  which  the  Apollo  stood.  Sass  threw  them  to 
the  ground,  and  quietly  told  me  "  if  such  conduct  occurred 
again,  my  immediate  expulsion  would  follow."  Though 
Mr.  Sass  was  well-educated  and  a  gentleman,  he  was,  as  I 
have  shown,  subject  to  attacks  of  excitement  and  irrita- 
bility from  influences  sometimes  so  slight  as  to  cause  sur- 
prise in  those  who  had  unwittingly  made  him  angry;  his 
language  then  became  curiously  involved,  ungrammatical, 
and  often  incomprehensible. 

One  of  his  pupils,  a  light-headed,  careless  young  fellow, 
who  had  annoyed  the  master  by  his  conduct,  received  a 


THE    SCHOOL    OF   ART.  29 

reprimand  in  the  following  words  addressed  to  the  whole 
school:  "Gentlemen,  I  was  at  the  lecture  at  the  Royal 
Academy  last  night,  where  I  met  Wilkie,  and  he  said  to 
me,  'Sass,  you  could  teach  a  stone  to  draw;'  and  so  IT  is, 
but  I  can't  teach  that  C anything." 

On  another  occasion,  when  he  was  instructing  us  in  the 
true  way  of  producing  the  harmony  that  should  exist  in 
works  of  art  between  the  figures  in  a  picture  and  their 

background,  thinking  he  detected  a  sneer  on  C 's  face, 

he  said,  turning  to  C ,  and  pointing  to  one  of  his  own 

works,  "  You,"  with  tremendous  emphasis  on  the  word, 
"  won't  believe  me  /  perhaps  you  will  believe  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence,  who  said  when  he  looked  at  that  picture, '  What 
a  wonderful  "harmonious" !  How  is  it  produced?'" 

While  I  was  in  school  there  were  two  expulsions:  one 
in  the  person  of  a  youth  from  Jersey,  who,  in  spite  of  a 
notice  in  large  letters  always  visible  to  him,  that  "  Silence 
is  indispensable  in  a  place  devoted  to  study,"  persisted  in 
singing  French  songs  in  a  piercingly  shrill  voice,  and  in 
laughing  at  Mr.  Sass;  and  singing  louder  than  ever  when 
the  professor  disappeared.  The  other  discharged  student 
was  my  old  friend  Jacob  Bell,  so  well  known  afterwards 
as  the  intimate  and  valued  friend  of  Sir  Edwin  Landseer, 
the  purchaser  of  so  many  of  that  great  artist's  works,  and, 
I  may  add,  of  my  "  Derby  Day,"  all  eventually  bequeathed 
by  him  to  the  National  Gallery. 

Bell  went  through  the  drawing  from  the  flat  with  much 
tribulation,  and  at  last  began  the  fearful  plaster  ball,  in 
the  representation  of  which  he  had  advanced  considerably; 
but  he  also  had  arrived  at  the  limit  of  his  patience,  and 
on  one  fatal  Monday  morning,  after  witnessing  an  early 
execution  at  Newgate,  he  drew  the  scaffold  and  the  crimi- 
nal hanging  on  it,  in  the  centre  of  the  ball.  We  were 
grouped  round  the  artist  listening  to  an  animated  account 
of  the  murderer's  last  moments  when  Sass  appeared. 

The  crowd  of  listeners  ran  to  their  seats  and  waited  for 
the  storm.  Mr.  Sass  looked  at  the  drawing,  and  went  out 
of  the  studio — a  pin  might  have  been  heard  to  drop.  Bell 
looked  round  and  winked  at  me.  Sass  returned,  and 
walked  slowly  up  to  Mr.  Jacob  Bell,  and  addressed  him  as 


30  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

follows  :  "  Sir,  Mr.  Bell;  sir,  your  father,  placed  you  under 
my  care  for  the  purpose  of  making  an  artist  of  you.  I 
can't  do  it  ;  I  can  make  nothing  of  you.  I  should  be 
robbing  your  father  if  I  did  it.  You  had  better  go,  sir; 
such  a  career  as  this,"  pointing  to  the  man  hanging,  "is 
a  bad  example  to  your  fellow -pupils.  You  must  leave, 
sirr 

"  All  right,"  said  Bell,  and  away  he  went,  returning  to 
the  d^iggist's  shop  established  by  his  father  in  Oxford 
Street,  where  he  made  a  large  fortune,  devoting  it  mainly 
to  the  encouragement  of  art  and  artists,  and  dying  prema- 
turely, beloved  and  regretted  by  all  who  knew  him. 

It  is  reported  of  his  father,  a  rigid  Quaker,  who  watched 
with  disapproval  his  son's  purchases  of  pictures,  that  he 
said  to  him  one  day: 

"What  business  hast  thou  to  buy  those  things,  wasting 
thy  substance  ?" 

"  I  can  sell  any  of  those  things  for  more  than  I  gave  for 
them,  some  for  twice  as  much." 

"  Is  that  verily  so  ?"  said  the  old  man.  "  Then  I  see  no 
sin  in  thy  buying  more." 

When  Bell  first  appeared  at  Sass's,  he  wore  the  Quaker 
coat;  but  finding  that  the  students  showed  their  disap- 
proval in  a  marked  and  unpleasant  manner — such,  for  in- 
stance, as  writing  "  Quaker  "  in  white  chalk  across  his  back 
— he  discarded  that  vestment,  and  very  soon  afterwards 
was  himself  discarded  by  the  Quakers.  His  dismissal  hap- 
pened in  this  wise.  At  "meeting"  the  men  sit  on  one 
side  of  the  chapel,  and  the  women  on  the  other.  Bell  dis- 
liked this  arrangement,  and,  finding  remonstrance  of  no 
avail,  he  disguised  himself  in  female  attire,  and  took  his 
place  in  the  forbidden  seats.  For  a  time  all  went  well, 
but  a  guilty  conscience  came  into  play  on  seeing  two  of 
the  congregation  speaking  together  and  eying  him  suspi- 
ciously the  while;  he  took  fright,  and,  catching  up  his  petti- 
coats, he  went  out  from  "meeting"  with  a  stride  that 
proclaimed  his  sex.  For  this  he  was,  as  I  have  heard  him 
tell  many  a  time,  expelled  from  the  community. 

To  retui'n  once  more  to  Sass's. 

Besides  the  warning  notice  that  had  so  little  effect  on 


THE   SCHOOL   OF   ART.  31 

the  musical  student,  there  were  many  other  pieces  of  ad- 
vice distributed  around  and  about  the  gallery  in  motto 
fashion,  one  or  two  of  which  I  particularly  recollect : 
"  Those  models  which  have  passed  through  the  approba- 
tion of  ages  are  intended  for  your  imitation,  and  not  your 
criticism;"  "Blessed  is  he  that  expecteth  nothing,  for  he 
shall  not  be  disappointed;"  " Laborare  est  orare"  and  so 
on.  I  don't  think  the  motto  system  did  us  any  good. 
Upon  greater  familiarity  grew  greater  contempt,  and  the 
wise  sayings  lost  their  influence,  if  they  ever  had  any. 
Very  few  of  the  contemporaries  of  my  student-days  have 
left  any  "  footprints  on  the  sands  of  time."  Many  of  them 
died  young;  others,  after  becoming  students  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  drifted,  disappointed,  away  from  artistic  life 
into  more  congenial  and  profitable  pursuits. 

Edward  Lear,  afterwards  well  known  as  the  author  of  a 
child's  book  called  "  A  Book  of  Nonsense,"  was  one  who 
became  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  as  well  as  fellow- 
student.  He  is  still  living,  I  believe,  somewhere  in  Italy. 
Lear  was  a  man  of  varied  and  great  accomplishments,  a 
friend  of  Tennyson's,  whose  poetry  he  sang  charmingly  to 
music  of  his  own  composing.  As  a  landscape-painter  he 
had  much  merit;  but  misfortune  in  the  exhibition  of  his 
pictures  pursued  him,  as  it  has  done  so  many  others,  and 
at  last,  I  fear,  drove  him  away  to  try  his  fortune  else- 
where. There  were  two  men  named  Savage,  one  very 
dark,  the  other  very  fair.  We  called  the  one  black,  and 
the  other  white,  Savage.  I  cannot  recall  even  the  names 
of  more  than  two  others.  The  first — how  much  the  first 
in  all  respects! — was  Douglas  Cowper,  a  fair,  handsome, 
delicate  youth  who  possessed  powers  which,  if  rapid  con- 
sumption followed  by  death  before  he  was  twenty-one  had 
not  cut  short  his  bright  and  happy  life,  would  have  speedi- 
ly placed  him  in  the  first  rank  of  his  profession.  His 
matchless  application,  his  delight  even  in  the  driest  parts 
of  his  training,  and  the  rapidity  of  his  improvement,  were 
matters  of  envy  and  astonishment  to  all  of  us.  He  was 
the  master's  favorite  pupil,  and  often  held  up  to  us  in  his 
presence  as  an  example  to  Mr.  C—  -  and  others,  among 
whom  I  must  place  myself.  Cowper's  course  was  very 


32  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

rapid.  He  became  a  student  of  the  Royal  Academy, 
gained  medals  in  all  the  schools,  succeeded  at  once  in 
painting  pictures  in  which  he  displayed  (of  course  in  a 
comparatively  immature  manner)  refinement,  extreme  sen- 
sibility to  female  beauty,  appreciation  of  character — in 
short,  every  quality  that  can  adorn  a  picture.  Finding 
disease  increase  upon  him,  he  went  abroad,  became  worse, 
and  returned  home  to  die.  The  other,  Benjamin  Aplin 
Newman  Green,  my  fellow  in-door  pupil,  was  as  different 
from  Cowper  as  it  was  possible  for  one  human  b.eing  to  be 
from  another.  A  good-natured,  foolish  creatm-e,  without 
the  least  ability  as  an  artist ;  but  a  great  worshipper  of 
Byron,  most  of  whose  poems  he  could  repeat  by  heart,  to 
my  sorrow,  for  our  evenings  were  perforce  nearly  always 
spent  together,  and  the  study  of  Michael  Angelo  was  dif- 
ficult enough  without  constant  interruptions  from  the 
"Corsair"  and  the  "Bride  of  Abydos."  Poor  Green  was 
the  butt  of  the  school.  The  more  advanced  students 
worked  in  the  lower  gallery,  and  no  sooner  did  the  monot- 
onous tones  of  Green's  voice  reach  us  in  the  upper  studio, 
than,  armed  with  bread-crusts,  we  quietly  descended  the 
stairs,  and  before  he  had  got  further  in  his  recitation  than 

"  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free," 

a  shower  of  bread,  crust  or  crumb,  according  to  what  was 
at  our  disposal  (after  using  it  for  error-erasing  in  our  draw- 
ings), put  a  temporary  stop  to  the  infliction.  On  one  oc- 
casion I  remember  my  own  aim  being  diverted  by  the 
sudden  apparition  of  the  professor,  who  passed  through 
the  curtains  of  the  passage  at  the  moment  of  attack,  and 
the  result  was  a  smart  blow  in  the  middle  of  the  august 
waistcoat  instead  of  the  spot  intended.  I  went  back  to 
my  work  and  waited.  In  a  minute  Sass  appeared  in  the 
upper  gallery  with  the  crust  in  his  hand. 

"  Who  did  this  ?"  said  he. 

"I  threw  it,  sir;  but  it  was  not  intended  for  you." 

"  For  whom  was  it  intended,  sir  ?" 

"  For  Mr.  Green." 

"Then  never  dare  to  presume  to  throw  bread  at  me 


THE    SCHOOL    OF   ART.  33 

again.  If  I  ever  discover  you  guilty  of  such  unexampled 
conduct,  I  will,"  etc.,  etc. 

From  Mr.  Sass's  family,  with  whom  as  in-door  pupil  I 
was  in  constant  intercourse,  I  received  the  greatest  kind- 
ness. Mrs.  Sass  was  a  mother  to  me  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word  ;  and  it  was  a  wondering  pleasure  to  me  to  see 
so  many  of  the  great  men  of  that  day,  whose  like  we  shall 
not  look  upon  again.  I  was  sitting  with  the  family  in  the 
drawing-room  one  evening,  a  little  reading  and  music 
going  on,  when  Mr.  Wilkie  was  announced.  Mr.  Sass 
went  to  meet  him,  and  tried  to  induce  him  to  stay;  but 
the  great  painter  was  not,  or  did  not  think  himself,  in 
presentable  evening  costume,  and,  besides,  he  was  in  a 
great  hurry.  He  was  very  tall,  and  wore  a  long  blue  cloak. 
The  Sass  family,  of  course,  he  knew,  and  I  was  pointed 
out  to  him  as  "one  of  my  pupils  who  has  just  finished  his 
drawing  for  the  Academy." 

"  Varra  weel,"  said  Wilkie,  the  Scotch  vernacular  being 
very  marked. 

Mr.  Sass  was  accustomed  to  give  a  series  of  conversa- 
zioni, at  which  great  artists  and  other  distinguished  men 
were  present.  Etty,  Martin  (certainly  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  human  beings  I  ever  beheld),  and  Constable  were 
frequent  visitors.  We  had  dinners  and  dances,  too.  Who 
that  had  once  seen  Wilkie  dance  a  quadrille  could  ever 
forget  the  solemnity  of  the  performance  !  Every  step  was 
done  with  a  conscientious  precision  that  pointed  to  the 
recent  dancing-master.  "  Whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all 
is  worth  doing  well,"  seemed  to  be  expressed  in  every 
movement ;  and  then  the  courtly  grace  with  which  he 
bowed  to  his  partner  and  led  her  to  her  seat !  Autre  temps, 
autre  mceurs.  We  never  see  such  sights  nowadays. 

I  assisted  at  one  memorable  dinner.  The  guests  were 
Eastlake,  Constable,  Wilkie,  Etty — Chantry,  I  think — and 
others  whom  I  forget.  I  sat  between  Eastlake  and  Con- 
stable. The  only  words  addressed  to  me  were  by  East- 
lake,  and  they  were  to  the  effect  that  a  sugar  erection  on 
the  table  near  us  was  like  a  Grecian  temple;  didn't  I  think 
so  ?  I  was  too  frightened  to  reply.  Wilkie  talked  a  great 
deal,  but  quite  over  my  head ;  and  on  the  conversation 

9* 


34  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

turning  upon  how  far  ignorant  opinion  was  valuable  on 
pictures,  Constable  maintained  that  it  was  worthless,  as  he 
believed  was  Moliere's  housekeeper's  judgment  on  literary 
work.  To  illustrate  his  opinion  he  gave  the  following  ex- 
ample :  A  nobleman  (whose  name  I  forget)  had  com- 
missioned Constable  to  paint  a  landscape  of  a  beautiful  part 
of  the  country  surrounding  a  certain  castle,  the  seat  of  the 
noble  lord.  The  picture  was  to  be  both  a  landscape  and 
a  portrait  of  the  castle,  and  a  large  summer-house  was  al- 
lotted as  a  studio  for  the  painter,  who  made  many  studies, 
and,  indeed,  painted  one  or  two  pictures  from  adjacent 
scenery.  The  walls  of  the  summer-house  had  been  newly 
covered  with  a  gorgeous  paper  representing  flowers,  trees, 
rocks,  etc.  On  this  wall  hung  an  empty  gold  frame,  and 
Constable  declared  that  the  gardener,  whose  opinion  he 
had  asked  upon  his  work  generally,  after  making  a  variety 
of  idiotic  remarks,  said,  looking  at  the  empty  frame  hang- 
ing on  the  wall — through  which  the  wall-paper  appeared 
as  a  picture — "  T/iafs  a  lovely  pictur',  sir ;  that's  more 
finished,  that  is  ;  more  what  I  like." 

Undoubtedly  Constable  was  one  of  the  greatest  land- 
scape-painters that  ever  lived,  second  only  to  Turner,  the 
greatest  of  all.  He  was  an  embittered,  disappointed  man, 
and  with  reason;  for  while  artists  of  far  inferior  talent 
sold  their  pictures  readily  and  for  large  sums,  Constable 
was  neglected  and  unpopular.  The  works  of  a  landscape 
and  sea  painter  of  great  eminence,  whose  name  I  suppress, 
were  sometimes  open  to  the  charge  of  a  certain  putty-like 
texture,  and  the  fact  that  Constable  had  expressed  his 
opinion  that  "  Blank's"  pictures  were  "  like  putty  "  reached 
the  artist's  ears;  and  upon  some  occasion  soon  after,  when 
Constable  praised  a  certain  picture  of  his,  "Blank"  im- 
mediately retorted: 

"Why,  I  am  told  you  say  my  pictures  are  like  putty  !" 
"  Well,"  said  Constable,  "  what  of  that  ?    I  like  putty." 
Constable  died  very  suddenly  in  the  year  1837.     He 
had  retired  to  rest  in  his  usual  health,  and  was  found  dead 
in  the  morning.     I  fear  there  are  few  men  now  living  who 
can  remember  Dr.  Herring's  account  of  the  effect  of  Con- 
stable's sudden  death  upon  two  painters  named  Wilkins, 


THE    SCHOOL   OP   ART.  35 

both  very  short,  very  stout  men,  who,  to  use  Dr.  Herring's 
words,  "  wore  the  calves  of  their  legs  in  front,"  each  pos- 
sessing larger  corporations  than  are  commonly  seen.  They 
were  pompous  men,  and  carried  their  calves  and  their 
stomachs  very  much  en  evidence. 

One  of  them  painted  pictures  of  dead  game,  and  on 
Herring  admiring  a  group  of  dead  rabbits  and  praising 
the  natural  appearance  of  them,  Wilkins  said,  in  his  loud, 
unctuous,  pompous  tone, 

"  Nature,  sir.  Yes,  I  flatter  myself  there  is  more  nature 
in  those  rabbits  than  you  usually  see  in  rabbits." 

One  of  the  Wilkinses  hearing  of  Constable's  death,  hur- 
ried home  with  the  news.  He  walked  up  to  his  brother, 
their  corporations  almost  meeting. 

"  William,  what  do  you  think  ?"  giving  his  brother  a 
butt  with  his  stomach. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returning  the  push. 

"  Constable's  dead!"  a  violent  effort  of  corporation  fol- 
lowing, which  sent  the  brothers  for  the  moment  a  little 
back  from  each  other. 

"  Constable  deadf"  said  William,  in  accents  of  incredu- 
lity and  consternation,  and  with  a  tremendous  return  of 
the  stomach  charge. 

"Yes!"  with  a  butt. 

"  No!"  with  return  butt.     "  Not  deadT  butt. 

"Yes,  DEAD!"  return  butt. 

And  they  continued  exclaiming  and  butting  at  each 
other  until  their  surprise  and  consternation  ceased. 

After  my  admission  as  a  student  of  the  Royal  Academy 
— that  is  to  say,  after  more  than  two  years'  hard  work  at 
drawing — I  was  allowed  to  take  my  first  step  in  painting, 
and  I  returned  to  Sass's  for  that  purpose.  Here,  again, 
the  system  was  admirable.  A  simple  antique  model  was 
put  up  before  the  student,  who,  provided  with  brushes, 
and  black  and  white  paint  only  on  his  palette,  was  told  to 
copy  it  in  monochrome.  I  date  my  first  real  pleasure 
in  my  work  from  that  moment.  After  the  tedious  manip- 
ulation of  Italian  chalk,  the  working  with  the  brush  was 
delightful,  and  the  result  seemed  so  much  more  satisfac- 
torily like  the  object  imitated  than  was  possible  by  the 


36  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

former  method.  No  sooner  did  I  feel  the  fascination  of 
the  brush  than  I  burned  to  try  my  hand  at  nature  in  some 
form  or  other.  I  begged  to  be  permitted  to  paint  a  head 
from  life.  I  was  told  I  was  just  as  fit  to  command  the 
Channel  Fleet  as  to  paint  a  head  from  nature.  "You 
would  wreck  the  ships,  sir,  and  you  would  only  spoil  good 
canvas  if  you  had  your  will."  So  I  was  made  to  copy 
copies  of  the  old  masters  till  I  began  to  feel  a  dangerous 
and  rebellious  spirit  growing  up  within  me,  and  at  last 
I  told  my  master  I  would  copy  no  more.  Oliver  "  asking 
for  more  "  did  not  produce  a  greater  effect  upon  Mr.  Bum- 
ble than  did  my  audacity  on  Mr.  Sass.  He  could  not 
trust  himself  to  reply  until  the  usual  retirement  had  taken 
place.  He  then  said,  very  calmly,  "You  are  too  great  a 
man  for  me;  you  want  no  more  instruction;  I  am  useless. 
I  will  write  to  your  father  and  tell  him  there  is  no  neces- 
sity for  you  to  remain  here  any  longer;  your  friends  ex- 
pect you  to  be  a  second  Wilkie.  I  can't  make  Wilkies; 
and  if  I  could,  I  should  not  make  the  experiment  out  of 
such  material  as  you."  This  was  disheartening;  but  I 
knew  the  good  old  fellow  would  not  write  to  my  father, 
and  would  soon  forget  .all  about  my  impertinence.  The 
matter  was  compromised  by  my  doing  one  copy  more, 
and  then  being  allowed  to  arrange  and  paint  a  group  of 
still  life. 

My  first  attempt  from  nature  still  exists.  It  consists  of 
a  brown  jar,  a  wicker  Florence  oil-bottle,  and  an  old  ink- 
stand. 

I  no  longer  regretted  the  easy  life,  or  what  I  thought 
such,  of  the  auctioneer.  I  felt  real  enjoyment  in  my 
work,  a  feeling  which  has  possessed  me  from  that  day  to 
this  in  ever  -  increasing  strength.  The  Sass  boys  were 
handsome  enough  and  patient  enough  for  models,  and 
from  one  of  them  I  painted  my  first  exhibited  picture.  I 
sent  it  to  the  British  Gallery  (then  existing  in  Pall  Mall 
under  the  name  of  the  British  Institution),  and  to  my 
great  delight  my  picture,  which  was  called  "  A  Page  with 
a  Letter,"  was  hung  at  the  top  of  the  room.  And  what 
airs  I  gave  myself!  How  superior  I  felt  and  looked  to 
those  who  had  been  less  fortunate  than  myself!  But  I 


THE   SCHOOL   OF    ART.  37 

anticipate.  Long  before  I  could  persuade  my  master  to 
let  me  try  my  hand  at  his  son  I  had  dreadful  fights  with 
him  about  the  method  I  persisted  in  adopting,  which  was 
to  go  to  the  streets  for  any  striking  character  I  could  per- 
suade to  place  himself,  or  herself,  under  my  "  'prentice 
hand."  Though  I  had  painted  many  groups  of  still  life, 
all  of  which  had  passed  under  the  criticism  of  my  master, 
ho  still  insisted  that  I  should  paint  a  composition  of  still- 
life  objects,  ignoring  all  I  had  done.  This  forgetfulness 
seemed  strange;  indeed,  it  was  one  of  the  first  signs  of 
the  mental  trouble  that  afterwards 'terminated  in  insanity. 
Another  sign  of  the  near  approach  of  that  dreadful  dis- 
ease may  be  mentioned.  The  cartoons  of  Raphael  were 
then  preserved  in  one  of  the  galleries  at  Hampton  Court 
Palace;  and  it  was  a  custom  of  Mr.  Sass's  to  take  a  selec- 
tion of  his  pupils  by  coach  to  the  palace,  where  he  gave  a 
sort  of  lecture  in  the  presence  of  the  cartoons.  He  always 
made  us  remove  our  hats  on  entering  the  room,  and  then, 
in  solemn  tones,  as  if  he  were  at  church,  he  would  expati- 
ate on  the  wonders  before  him.  I  well  remember  the  last 
journey  I  made  to  Hampton  Court.  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer's  morning,  and  the  students  occupied  all  the  out- 
side seats  of  the  coach;  Sass  sitting  beside  the  coachman, 
I,  with  my  friend  Abraham  Solomon  (a  young  man  of 
great  ability,  who  died  early),  sitting  immediately  behind 
our  master  and  the  coachman.  Sass  talked  incessantly,  to 
the  amusement  of  the  coachman,  who  evidently  attributed 
his  excitement  to  a  common  cause.  We,  who  knew  the 
professor's  temperate  habits  too  well  to  be  able  to  account 
for  it  in  that  way,  soon  had  a  proof  that  our  more  terrible 
suspicions  were  only  too  well  grounded.  Sass  suddenly 
turned  to  Solomon  and  said, 

"  Why  don't  you  wear  a  Gibus  hat  ?" 

Solomon  had  never  thought  of  doing  so,  and  said  he 
"didn't  see  why  he  should." 

"  Why!"  said  poor  Sass.  "  I'll  soon  tell  you  tchy.  You 
can  put  it  into  your  pocket  when  you  have  done  with  it; 
if  you  sit  upon  it  you  can't  hurt  it;  you  just  touch  a  spring 
and  it  shuts  up.  They  are  first-rate  things,  and  I  shall 
never  wear  anv  other." 


38  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

On  this  particular  day  Mr.  Sass  wore  a  white  beaver, 
about  as  unlike  a  Gibus  as  it  could  possibly  be.  Solomon 
then  said, 

"  Well,  sir,  then  why  don't  you  wear  one  yourself  ?" 

"I  do,"  said  Sass;  "this  is  one.  Do  you  doubt  it?  I 
see  you  do.  Then  just  look  here.  Coachman,  get  up  a 
moment."  The  coachman  got  up  as  desired,  and  the  hat 
was  placed  on  his  seat.  He  sat  down  upon  it  and  split  it 
in  every  direction.  "  There,"  said  Sass,  "  I  hope  you  are 
satisfied  that  I  do  wear  a  Gibus."  And  wear  his  so-called 
Gibus  he  did  the  rest  of  the  day  in  its  battered  condition, 
and  became  a  laughing-stock  in  consequence. 

After  seeing  the  cartoons  it  was  the  custom  to  go  upon 
the  river,  and  on  this  occasion  our  master  wished  to  dis- 
pense with  a  waterman  and  row  us  himself.  This  we  de- 
clined, so  he  refused  to  go  with  us,  and  insisted  on  having 
a  boat  to  himself;  and,  in  spite  of  our  remonstrance  and 
opposition,  the  adventurous  oarsman  pushed  off,  and, 
though  it  was  evident  he  had  never  attempted  rowing  be- 
fore, he  managed  to  paddle  his  boat  into  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  where  its  motions  became  so  eccentric  and  alarm- 
ing that  its  poor  tenant  grew  frightened,  and  called  out 
loudly  for  help,  which  speedily  reached  him. 

Soon  after  this  more  unmistakable  evidences  of  a  dis- 
turbed mind  showed  themselves,  such,  for  instance,  as  his 
ordering  great  quantities  of  goods — for  which  he  could 
have  no  possible  use — from  various  unsuspecting  trades- 
men, strangers  to  him;  and  his  purchasing  quite  a  collec- 
tion of  atrociously  bad  pictures,  blocking  up  the  passages 
and  staircases  of  his  house  with  these  and  all  sorts  of  other 
utterly  unnecessary  articles.  One  more  most  convincing 
and  melancholy  sign  of  the  sad  affliction  that  had  come 
upon  him  occurred  one  evening.  He  was  sitting  over  the 
fire  with  an  old  friend,  who  told  him  a  very  good  story, 
which,  for  the  instant,  he  seemed  capable  of  thoroughly 
appreciating  and  enjoying;  but  after  a  few  minutes  had 
elapsed,  apparently  quite  forgetful  of  when  and  where  he 
had  heard  it,  he  told  the  same  story  over  again,  as  some- 
thing entirely  fresh,  to  the  friend  who  had  only  just  re- 
counted it  to  him.  Almost  immediately  after  this  incident 


THE   SCHOOL   OP   ART.  39 

restraint  became  compulsory,  and  "The  School  of  Art, 
Bloomsbury,"  under  Mr.  Sass's  management,  closed  for- 
ever. 

Before  finally  taking  leave  of  Mr.  Sass  I  desire  to  bear 
testimony  to  his  great  qualities  as  a  teacher  and  to  his 
amiable  disposition  as  a  man.  Personally,  I  feel  I  owe 
everything  to  him  and  his  teaching;  and  there  are  some 
of  my  brother  academicians  now  living  who,  I  feel  sure, 
would  endorse  my  verdict  on  our  dear  old  teacher. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE     LIFE     SCHOOL. 

THOUGH  I  would  gladly  have  bid  adieu  to  antique  draw- 
ing, I  found  that  if  I  desired  to  reach  the  upper  school  at 
the  R.A.,  where  painting  was  taught,  I  could  only  do  so 
by  drawings  which  must  meet  the  approval  of  the  council. 
I  succeeded,  after  several  futile  attempts,  in  achieving 
these,  and  then  I  was  permitted  to  draw  in  the  Life  School. 
There  the  whole  thing  was  delightful  to  me.  The  acade- 
micians were  visitors — one  of  the  august  forty  sitting  with 
us  the  prescribed  two  hours,  rarely  drawing,  oftener  read- 
ing. In  those  days  scarcely  ever  teaching.  How  differ- 
ent to  the  present  "manners  and  customs"!  The  Life 
School,  or,  in  other  words,  the  school  of  the  nude  model, 
was  at  that  time  held  in  what  the  students  called  the  "  pep- 
per-box," namely,  the  centre  cupola  of  the  now  National 
Gallery  in  Trafalgar  Square.  It  was  a  circular  room,  and 
the  model  was  posed  on  one  side  of  it — an  extended  semi- 
circle of  students  working  opposite.  Dead  silence  reigned. 
Strange  scenes  sometimes  occurred.  Some  of  our  models 
were  splendid  guardsmen.  One,  named  Brunskill,  was  a 
special  favorite,  from  his  magnificent  physique,  and  his 
extraordinary  endurance  of  painful  attitudes.  He  was 
usually  perfectly  sober,  because  he  knew  well  that  one 
lapse  from  that  condition  would  put  an  end  to  his  career 
as  a  Royal  Academy  model. 

I  well  remember  his  last  appearance.  He  was  late — a 
great  sin  in  a  model — and,  what  was  worse,  he  had  evi- 
dently been  drinking.  His  attitude  was  that  of  a  sailor 
pushing  a  boat  from  the  shore.  He  had  a  heavy  oar,  with 
which  he  thrust  against  an  impediment  meant  to  represent 
a  rock. 

I  was  almost  under  the  man,  and  had  a  very  difficult 


THE   LIFE   SCIIOOL.  41 

• 

piece  of  foreshortening  to  contend  with,  and  was  doing 
ray  best  to  master  it,  when  the  model  said, 

"  I  can't  do  it.  I  ain't  fit  to  do  it.  This  'ere  thing  what 
I  hold  ain't  right.  Nothing's  right;  so  I  wish  you  gentle- 
men good-night.  There  now!" 

It  was  "good-night"  to  us,  and  "good-bye"  to  Bruns- 
kill,  for  he  was  never  allowed  to  sit  again.  Some  months 
after  this,  when  Mr.  Jones,  R.A.,  was  visitor,  an  incident 
occurred  which  may  interest  my  readers,  if  I  ever  have 
any.  (Par  parenthtee,  I  may  say  of  Mr.  Jones  that  he 
was  chiefly  known  as  a  painter  of  military  pictures,  and 
in  dress  and  person  he  so  much  resembled  the  great  Duke 
of  Wellington  that,  to  his  extreme  delight,  he  was  often 
mistaken  for  that  hero,  and  saluted  accordingly.  On  this 
coming  to  the  ears  of  the  duke,  he  said,  "  Dear  me.  Mis- 
taken for  me,  is  he  ?  That's  strange,  for  no  one  ever  mis- 
takes me  for  Mr.  Jones.") 

This  anecdote  was  told  by  me  to  my  old  friend  Edmund 
Yates,  who  relates  it  in  his  delightful  reminiscences. 

But,  to  return  to  the  Jones  incident.  A  female  model 
was  the  sitter,  and  was  placed  with  her  back  to  the  stu- 
dents, half  leaning,  half  reclining,  in  an  attitude  full  of 
grace.  I  had  arrived  late,  and  was  compelled  to  take  the 
only  vacant  seat  at  the  end  of  the  semicircle,  from  which 
I  had  a  view  of  the  model's  profile.  The  face  was  new  to 
me;  the  attitude  seemed  a  very  easy  one.  I  was,  there- 
fore, surprised  to  see  tears  slowly  falling  down  the  mod- 
el's cheek.  I  thought  I  ought  to  draw  the  attention  of 
the  visitor  to  the  fact,  and  did  so.  "Oh,  no!"  said  Mr. 
Jones;  "she  can't  be  in  pain;  no.  I  think  I  know  what 
distresses  her.  Take  no  notice.  Go  on  with  your  work." 

The  next  night  the  sitting  was  repeated,  but  the  tears 
were  not,  and  I  thought  little  more  about  the  matter.  A 
few  months  after  this  a  very  modest,  respectable-looking 
girl  was  sent  to  me  by  a  friend  as  a  model,  and  I  engaged 
her  at  once  for  a  picture  I  had  just  commenced.  I  found 
the  girl  was  the  daughter  of  a  tailor  in  a  very  small  way 
of  business,  and  that  she  was  in  every  particular  a  thor- 
oughly respectable  person.  It  was  not  till  after  two  or 
three  sittings,  and  on  looking  again  and  again  at  her  pro- 


42  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

• 

file,  that  it  struck  me  that  I  had  seen  the  tears  coursing 

7  O 

each  other  down  it  in  the  Life  School. 

"Surely,  Miss  B ,  I  cannot  be  mistaken;  you  sat  for 

Mr.  Jones  at  the  Royal  Academy  ?"  She  blushed  terribly, 
and  tears  came  again.  "Now  tell  me  why  you  did  such 
a  thing?" 

"I  did  it,"  said  she,  "to  prevent  my  father  going  to 
prison.  He  owed  three  pounds  ten,  and  if  he  couldn't 
have  paid  it  by  that  Saturday  night  he  was  to  be  arrested. 
The  Academy  paid  me  three  guineas  for  the  week,  and 
saved  him.  I  never  sat  in  that  way  before,  and  I  never 
will  again;"  and  I  believe  she  never  did. 

She  is  at  the  present  time  in  a  position  of  life  far  beyond 
anything  she  could  have  aspired  to.  She  is  a  mother  and 
a  grandmother,  and  no  one  has  any  idea  that  she  sat  for 
the  nude  figure  to  save  her  father  from  prison.  I  desire 
to  say  as  little  as  possible  on  a  disagreeable  subject;  but 
attempts  have  been  made  now  and  again  to  prevent  the 
study  of  the  female  nude.  If  the  well-meaning  objectors 
knew  half  as  much  as  I  do  of  the  subject  they  would  hes- 
itate before  they  charge  a  small  section  of  the  community 
with  immorality  which  exists  only  in  the  imagination  of 
the  accusers.  I  declare  I  have  known  numbers  of  perfectly 
respectable  women  who  have  sat  constantly  and  habitually 
for  the  nude,  and,  if  even  it  were  unfortunately  otherwise, 
we  painters  could  not  do  Avithout  them.  Many  men  draw 
every  figure  naked  in  their  compositions  before  they  clothe 
them.  I  did  so  for  years,  and  ought  to  do  so  now.  Then, 
again,  if  the  nude  female  figure  had  always  been  denied  to 
artists,  such  statues  as  the  Venus  of  Milo — the  delight  and 
wonder  of  the  world — could  not  have  been  executed.  Num- 
bers of  great  works  of  the  old  and  modern  masters  would 
never  have  seen  the  light,  and  generations  of  their  wor- 
shippers would  have  been  deprived  of  exquisite  pleasure 
and  untold  improvement. 

One  more  little  story  of  the  Life  School,  and  I  have 
done  with  it.  Sir  Edwin  Landseer  was  visitor — the  only 
instance  of  his  filling  the  office  in  my  time.  He  was  a 
very  fashionable  personage,  and  we  all  rather  wondered 
at  seeing  him  willing  to  spend  evenings,  usually  devoted 


THE   LIFE   SCHOOL.  43 

to  high  society,  in  the  service  of  the  Life  School.  He 
read  the  whole  time;  and  one  evening  a  very  old  gentle- 
man in  list-slippers,  with  a  speaking-trumpet  under  his 
arm,  shuffled  into  the  school.  This  was  John  Landseer, 
an  eminent  engraver,  an  associate  of  the  Academy,  and 
father  of  Edwin  Landseer,  whom  he  greatly  resembled. 
His  son  rose  to  meet  him,  with  the  book  he  had  been  read- 
ing in  his  hand. 

"You  are  not  drawing,  then;  why  don't  you  draw?" 
said  the  old  man,  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Don't  feel  inclined,"  shouted  the  son  down  the  trumpet. 

"Then  you  ought  to  feel  inclined.  That's  a  fine  figure; 
get  out  your  paper  and  draw." 

"  Haven't  got  any  paper,"  said  the  son. 

"  What's  that  book  ?"  said  the  father. 

" '  Oliver  Twist,' "  said  Edwin  Landseer,  in  a  voice  loud 
enough  to  reach  Trafalgar  Square. 

"  Is  it  about  art  ?" 

"No;  it's  about  Oliver  Twist." 

"Let  me  look  at  it.  Ha!  it's  some  of  Dickens'  non- 
sense, I  see.  You'd  much  better  draw  than  waste  your 
time  upon  such  stuff  as  that." 

This  amused  the  students,  who  tittered,  and  deepened 
the  frowns  that  had  been  gathering  through  the  interview 
on  the  brow  of  the  great  animal-painter,  and  added  to  the 
strained  condition  that  already  existed  between  him  and 
the  students;  for  Landseer  nearly  always  came  late,  and 
kept  us  waiting  outside  the  door  of  the  school  while  he 
was  placing  the  model  in  what  we  thought  a  purposely 
aggravating  way.  The  night  after  the  interview  I  have 
related  the  delay  outside  was  so  prolonged  that  we  stamped 
and  knocked  in  the  manner  common  to  a  crowd  waiting  in 
the  gallery  of  a  theatre  for  the  actors  to  appear. 

The  result  of  this  riotous  proceeding  was  that,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  written  order  posted  up  in  the  hall  on  the  next 
evening,  we  were  compelled  to  remain  below  till  the  bell 
summoned  us  to  mount  the  numberless  stairs  to  the  "  pep- 
per-box." Which  of  the  students  was  guilty  of  writing 
the  word  "  Humbug "  in  large  capitals  across  the  obnox- 
ious order  I  never  knew,  nor  indeed  did  I  know  that  it 


44  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

had  been  done  till  Mr.  Jones,  who  was  then  keeper  of  the 
Academy  and  the  head  of  all  the  schools,  walked  into  the 
Life  School  with  the  order  in  his  hand.  He  took  his  place 
with  his  back  to  the  model,  and  addressed  us  thus:  "  Gen- 
tlemen— I  use  that  word  in  addressing  you  collectively, 
but  there  is  one  person  among  you  who  has  no  claim  to 
the  appellation  —  I  hold  in  my  hand  evidence  of  vulgar 
insubordination.  I  am  sorry  to  think  that  an  act  which 
must  have  been  witnessed  by  some  of  you  was  not  pre- 
vented before  it  was  perpetrated.  I  seek  not,  gentlemen, 
to  discover  the  author  of  this  insult,  for,  if  I  knew  him,  it 
would  be  my  painful  duty  to  pursue  him  to  his  expul- 
sion," etc. 

Landseer  lived  at  least  thirty  years  after  this,  but  was 
never  visitor  again.  About  this  time  two  young  men  be- 
came students  of  the  Academy  who  were  destined  to  play 
very  important  parts  in  the  world.  John  Phillip,  who  be- 
came an  academician,  and  one  of  the  finest  painters  of  the 
English  or  any  other  school,  and  Richard  Dadd,  his  inti- 
mate friend  and  future  brother-in-law,  a  man  of  genius 
that  would  assuredly  have  placed  him  high  in  the  first 
rank  of  painters  had  not  a  terrible  affliction  darkened  one 
of  the  noblest  natures  and  brightest  minds  that  ever  ex- 
isted, and  eventually  put  an  end  to  all  the  hopes  that  were 
entertained  for  his  future.  I  cannot  go  into  details  that 
would  be  distressing  to  me  to  relate  and  to  the  survivors 
of  my  unhappy  friend  to  read.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
noble  mind  is  destroyed,  though  the  body  still  survives. 
I  would  rather  recall  Dadd  as  I  knew  him  in  the  happy 
days  of  long  ago,  when  he  and  Phillip,  O'Neil,  Elmore, 
Ward,  Egg  (all  gone!),  and  some  others,  formed  a  band 
of  followers  full  of  the  spirit  of  emulation,  love  for  our 
art  and  one  another.  As  to  jealousy  of  each  other,  I  can 
truly  say  the  feeling  never  crossed  my  mind,  nor  do  I  be- 
lieve it  existed  among  us  at  all.  We  met  together  con- 
stantly, formed  a  sketching-club,  criticised  and  abused 
each  other's  works  whenever  we  thought  they  deserved 
chastisement.  We  were  not  in  the  least  a  mutual-admira- 
tion society,  like  that  which  is  said  to  exist  among  a  cer- 
tain class  at  the  present  time. 


'I  in:    LIFE   SCHOOL.  45 

I  must  now  return  to  the  period  when  I  entered  the 
Life  Academy,  and  found  my  friend  Douglas  Cowper  at 
work  there.  He  was  far  in  advance  of  me  in  every  way, 
and  had  already  begun  to  paint  subjects,  illustrations  of 
Scott  and  Shakespeare;  and,  what  was  most  wonderful  to 
me,  the  pictures  were  sold !  for  very  small  prices,  certainly; 
but  they  were  sold. 

"  Why  don't  you  give  up  painting  heads,"  said  he  to  me, 
"  and  try  your  hand  at  a  composition  of  two  or  three  fig- 
ures ?" 

"Because  I  should  make  a  mess  of  it,"  said  I;  and  as  I 
made  a  very  deplorable  mess  of  a  composition  which  I  at- 
tempted many  months  afterwards — having  in  the  mean- 
time gone  through  a  course  of  portrait-painting — I  should 
only  have  disgusted  myself  beyond  endurance  by  so  pre- 
mature an  effort  as  Cowper  proposed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PRACTICE   IN   PORTRAIT-PAINTING. 

I  HAD  quitted  Sass's  for  good,  and  was  practising,  I 
still  think,  in  the  right  way,  viz.,  by  painting  any  one 
whom  I  could  persuade  to  sit  to  me;  and  among  those 
who  had  patience  to  go  through  this  ordeal  were  my  uncle 
and  aunt  Scaife  and  several  of  their  friends.  That  any- 
body would  be  fool  enough  to  pay  money  for  my  perform- 
ances never  entered  my  mind;  but,  to  my  delight,  one  day 
an  old  gentleman,  who  had  seen  a  portrait  of  one  of  my 
uncle's  friends,  offered  me  five  pounds  if  I  would  make  as 
good  a  likeness  of  him  as  I  had  done  of  my  other  victim. 
I  tried,  succeeded,  and  received  my  first  money  reward  for 
"  work  and  labor  done."  This  old  gentleman's  daughter 
was  governess  in  a  family  in  Lincolnshire,  and  the  owner 
of  the  family,  happening  to  be  in  London,  saw  the  portrait 
of  his  governess's  father,  and  was  so  struck  with  the  like- 
ness that  he  asked  me  if  I  could  go  to  his  house  to  paint 
himself,  and  "  others,  he  had  no  doubt,  would  follow 
suit " — price  five  pounds  for  a  head,  ten  for  a  kit-cat, 
fifteen  for  a  half  -  length  —  always  the  size  of  life.  I 
started  full  of  hope  and  interest,  and  found  myself  in 
the  midst  of  most  agreeable  society,  welcomed  every- 
where, and  with  as  much  work  as  I  could  do.  The  way 
of  it  was  this:  I  went  from  house  to  house,  chiefly  among 
the  higher  class  of  gentlemen  farmers,  staying  as  long 
as  my  work  lasted ;  sometimes  flirting  with  the  young 
ladies,  who  thought  painting  "  oh,  such  a  beautiful  art !" 
flattering  their  mothers — in  their  portraits,  I  mean — and, 
I  verily  believe,  making  myself  a  general  favorite  every- 
where. 

"Pickwick"  was  being  published  at  this  time  in  month- 


PRACTICE   IN    PORTRAIT-PAINTING.  47 

ly  parts,  taking  the  town  and  country  by  storm;  and  as 
each  number  appeared — to  beguile  the  tedium  of  the  sit- 
ting— it  was  read  by  the  wife  of  one  of  my  sitters,  who 
was  a  jolly  portly  man,  not  unlike  Mr.  Pickwick  him- 
self. Mrs.  N (the  wife)  was  a  very  serious  lady  in- 
deed, religious,  I  believe,  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word; 
but  certainly  a  very  depressing  person,  without  a  par- 
ticle of  fun,  or  the  least  sense  of  humor,  in  her  compo- 
sition. Anything  funnier,  however,  than  her  reading  of 
"  Pickwick "  could  not  be  conceived.  Every  sentence 
was  uttered  in  precisely  the  tones  she  used  when  she 
read  morning  and  evening  prayers,  and  I  need  scarcely 
say  that  that  method  of  elocution,  excellent  as  it  was  for 
the  one  purpose,  became  ludicrous  in  the  extreme  when 
adopted  for  the  other.  If  my  reader  will  take  the  trou- 
ble to  imagine  the  following  speech  of  Mr.  Weller's — 
"  You  would  change  your  note  if  you  know'd  who  was 
near  you,  as  the  hawk  remarked  to  hisself  with  a  cheer- 
ful laugh,  as  he  heard  the  robbing  red  breast  a-singing 
round  the  corner  " — delivered  in  the  manner  affected  by 
the  severest  of  the  Low-Church  clergymen,  an  idea  may 
be  formed  of  the  result  upon  me,  and  even  upon  my 
jolly  sitter,  whose  solemn  "Amen"  after  it  I  can  never 
forget. 

After  finishing  my  work  at  the  N s',  I  betook  my- 
self, bag  and  baggage,  to  a  neighboring  farmhouse,  where 
fresh  faces  awaited  my  attention.  The  Grange  was  a 

large  farm,  held  under  Lord  Yarborough  by  a  Mr.  F , 

who  possessed  a  pretty  little  wife  and  a  small  old  mother- 
in-law,  whose  characteristic  countenance  made  me  long  to 
paint  it. 

In  her  youth,  Mrs.  B ,  who  was  the  widow  of  a  bluff 

sea-captain  of  Hull,  had  been  a  great  beauty.  She  was 
now  very  old,  and  among  her  other  eccentricities  had  a 
habit  of  thinking  aloud,  and  invariably  on  the  same  sub- 
ject— personal  appearance.  Very  embarrassing,  because 
any  new  face  was  sure  to  produce  an  immediate  criticism, 
favorable  or  the  reverse.  I  arrived  very  late  at  the  Grange, 
and  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  where  a  young 
clergyman  was  reading  prayers,  and  the  visitors  and  faiii- 


48  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

ily  were  kneeling  in  various  directions.  The  old  lady  was 
allowed  to  pray  sitting,  seemingly;  and  when  I  appeared 
and  immediately  knelt  down  with  the  rest,  she  interrupted 
the  clergyman  by  some  words  which  I  did  not  catch,  but, 
judging  from  the  shaking  of  several  of  the  worshippers' 
shoulders,  and  the  great  difficulty  the  reader  had  in  going 
on  with  the  service,  they  evidently  were  of  a  droll  ten- 
dency. It  was  not  till  the  next  day  that  Mr.  F ex- 
plained the  situation.  The  fact  was  that  no  sooner  did 
the  old  lady  catch  sight  of  me,  than  she  exclaimed:  "  Well! 
he's  no  beauty." 

She  was  an  amusing  sitter.  With  regard  to  her  own 
portrait,  she  was  only  anxious  that  a  large  miniature  like- 
ness of  her  husband,  which  she  wore  as  a  brooch,  should 
be  faithfully  rendered.  "Oh,  mister!"  she  said;  "you 
haven't  caught  the  captain's  eye.  It  was  a  beautiful  blue, 
not  like  that;  THAT'S  GREEN  !" 

She  was,  however,  quite  content  with  my  rendering  of 
her  own  delightful  old  face — her  cheeks  streaked  like  a 
winter  apple;  and  she  was  apparently  quite  indifferent  to 
the  departed  loveliness  of  her  youth.  Very  unlike,  in  that 
respect,  many  old  ladies  I  have  painted  since,  most  of 
whom  have  seemed  possessed  with  the  idea  that  time  had 
stood  still  for  fifty  years;  and  that  the  face  over  which 
seventy  or  eighty  summers  and  winters  had  passed  was 
very  much  the  same  as  the  one  with  which  they  were 
familiar  in  their  teens.  I  could  furnish  proofs  of  what  I 
have  just  written  that  would  startle  the  incredulous  as 
much  as  the  facts  startled  me.  Among  my  sitters  in  those 
days  was  an  old  clergyman,  whose  daughters  were  most 
anxious  that  his  portrait  should  be  painted.  He  had  been 
a  chaplain  in  the  navy,  and — singular  perhaps  for  a  par- 
son— always  wore  a  long  blue  coat,  buttoned  to  the  throat ; 
the  black  ribbon  of  his  pince-nez  meandering  across  a 
chest  puffed  and  smooth,  in  unmistakable  imitation  of 
George  IV.  He  was  very  old,  and  very  upright — of  a 
spare,  tall  figure.  A  Sir  Charles  Grandison  in  courtesy, 
but  hated  sitting  with  an  intensity  I  have  rarely  seen 
equalled. 

I  believe  that  the  fight  that  went  on  between  his  desire 


PRACTICE    IX    PORTRAIT-PAINTING.  49 

to  please  his  daughters  and  his  dislike  of  sitting  shortened 
his  life.  He  was  of  a  bilious  temperament,  and  after  he 
had  been  sitting  a  short  time,  a  flush  spread  over  his  face, 
succeeded  by  a  yellow  patchiness  (between  both  of  which 
I  had  to  steer  a  middle  course),  plainly  showing  a  pain- 
fully disturbed  condition  of  his  system.  To  amuse  him,  I 
placed  a  large  looking-glass  in  such  a  position  as  to  enable 
him  to  see  each  touch  as  it  was  put  on.  I  was  hard  at 
work  at  the  blue  coat,  the  plain,  pigeon-breasted  appear- 
ance of  which  I  was  modifying  by  a  few  creases,  when  I 
saw  my  sitter  give  a  violent  tug  at  the  front  of  the  gar- 
ment. I  went  on  with  my  creases,  however,  successfully 
as  I  thought,  breaking  up  the  mass  of  monotonous  blue, 
until  the  old  gentleman,  apparently  unable  to  bear  it  any 
longer,  jumped  up  and  came  behind  me,  exclaiming  :  "  My 
dear  sir,  I  never,  never  wear  my  coat  like  that !  I  could 
not  endure  such  a  coat — it  does  not  fit  me  !  Pray  remove 
those  marks  !" 

And  removed  they  were,  and  the  coat  is  creaseless  to 
this  day.  I  spent  four  months  at  that  time  painting  por- 
traits in  Lincolnshire — in  fact,  1  remained  as  long  as  I 
could  find  any  work  to  do,  constantly  receiving  letters 
from  my  artist  friends  in  London,  giving  glowing  ac- 
counts of  the  Exhibition  of  1839  (opened  during  my  .ab- 
sence), and  bestowing  anathemas  on  myself  for  remaining 
away  from  the  scene  of  those  glories,  and  the  successes  of 
my  particular  friends,  notably  of  Cowper  and  O'Neil,  both 
of  whom  had  exhibited  pictures  which  had  found  pur- 
chasers. 

Looking  back,  I  feel  that  I  not  only  did  not  lose  time, 
but  improved  it  by  my  Lincolnshire  practice.  No  better 
preparation  could  be  imagined  for  a  man  whose  powers 
enable  him  to  cope  successfully  with  the  lower  or  the 
higher  branches  of  art,  than  the  careful  study  of  nature 
and  character  that  portrait-painting  insures.  I  have  seen 
several  of  my  performances  since  they  were  painted,  and 
what  surprised  me,  and  still  surprises  me,  is  the  curious 
difference  in  the  merits  of  works  done  in  consecutive  or- 
der. I  find  some  quite  exceptionally  well  done  for  so 
young  a  hand — good  in  drawing,  color,  and  character — 
3 


50  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

others  bad  in  every  respect;  but  I  have  the  satisfaction  of 
feeling  that  in  every  instance  I  endeavored  to  do  my  best, 
and  undoubtedly  I  gained  greatly  by  the  experience.  My 
work  generally  became  much  improved,  and  I  would  im- 
press upon  the  young  student  the  desirability  of  similar 
practice  when  attainable. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

"  POSTING "  FBOM   HABROGATE   TO   LONDON. 

I  AM  perfectly  ignorant  of  the  principles  of  literary 
composition.  "  Ignorance  is  bliss,"  they  say;  it  may  be, 
but  I  have  never  been  able  to  taste  the  rapture  that  con- 
dition of  mind  is  said  to  engender — indeed,  I  am  suffering 
from  the  misery  of  it  at  this  moment.  To  those  who  have 
accompanied  me  thus  far  in  my  reminiscences,  my  confes- 
sion of  incompetence  is  needless;  but  I  plead  it  in  excuse 
for  the  introduction  in  this  place  of  matter  that  I  fancy 
should  have  appeared  before.  With  this  short  prelude  in 
the  shape  of  excuse,  I  have  to  say  that  in  the  year  1837 
my  father  came  to  London,  and  stopped  at  my  uncle 
Scaife's  hotel,  as  usual.  He  was  a  great  sufferer  from 
asthma;  and  influenza  being  at  that  time  very  prevalent, 
he  was  attacked  by  it,  and  died  after  a  few  days'  illness. 
I  felt  his  loss  very  bitterly,  for,  as  so  often  happens,  under 
a  somewhat  gruff  manner  there  beat  a  warm  and  tender 
heart;  he  was  a  kind  and  loving  father,  and  his  loss,  at 
the  comparatively  early  age  of  sixty,  was  a  lasting  grief 
to  his  widow  and  children.  So  soon  as  my  mother  could 
find  a  tenant  for  the  Dragon  Hotel — of  which  my  father 
had  recently  become  owner  as  well  as  landlord — she  pre- 
pared to  leave  Harrogate  for  London,  so  as  to  make  a 
home  for  her  sons,  whose  professions  (law  and  art)  ren- 
dered a  residence  in  London  imperative.  I  may  premise 
that  for  many  years  my  mother  had  been  a  terrible  suf- 
ferer from  rheumatic  gout;  entire  loss  of  the  use  of  her 
limbs  being  the  result.  There  were  no  railways  between 
York  and  London  ;  a  night-and-day  journey  in  a  stage- 
coach presented  such  a  picture  of  misery,  and  perhaps  in- 
jury, to  the  invalid  as  to  necessitate  some  other  mode  of 
conveyance.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  "  post "  all 


52  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

the  way  to  London.  A  large  carriage  was  procured,  with 
an  ample  roof  for  luggage,  and  a  "rumble"  behind.  Well 
do  I  remember  the  packing  (piling,  rather)  of  that  tremen- 
dous luggage  !  When  a  mountain  of  moderate  dimen- 
sions had  been  erected,  there  still  remained  a  large  hair- 
trunk. 

"  Where  on  earth  is  that  to  go  ?  There  is  no  room  for 
it  up  there,"  said  I  to  one  of  the  packers — an  old  servant, 
who  had  known  me  from  a  child. 

"  Oh,  there's  plenty  of  room  up  in  the  allyment,"  said 
Seth,  and  up  into  the  element  went  the  trunk,  nearer  to  the 
stars  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Then  came  the  scarcely  less  difficult  packing  of  my 
mother.  That  accomplished,  my  sister  and,  I  think,  a 
maid  being  inside,  and  I  in  the  rumble  behind  with  a 
Yorkshire  housemaid,  we  started  on  our  long  journey 
southwards.  We  were  driven  by  easy  stages  —  fifteen 
miles,  more  or  less,  at  a  stretch — when,  with  fresh  horses 
and  post-boys,  we  continued  our  travel.  I  very  soon  found 
I  was  mistaken  for  a  footman ;  my  homely  appearance  and 
my  position  in  the  rumble  may  partly  account  for  the  mis- 
conception; and  I  very  likely  favored  it  by  my  readiness 
to  alight  at  each  stage,  in  seeing  after  fresh  horses,  and  in 
making  myself  more  or  less  useful  in  attaching  them  to 
the  carriage.  If  I  had  any  doubt  of  my  mistaken  iden- 
tity, it  was  put  to  rest  by  the  third  post-boy,  who,  after 
using  bad  language  to  me  because  I  did  not  buckle  some 
strap  or  other  properly,  called  out  to  me,  "  Here,  you  just 
stand  by  the  'orses  'eads  while  I  go  and  get  just  a  nip  at 
the  bar;"  and  there  I  stood.  And  when  my  friend  re- 
joined me,  wiping  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
he  informed  me  that  "  There  was  no  house  on  the  road 
where  you  could  get  a  better  glass  of  '  srub '  than  the 
Black  Bear ;  and  now  just  give  us  a  leg  up,  will  you  ?" 

I  confess  I  enjoyed  my  domestic  position  very  much, 
and  took  advantage  of  it  often  during  our  journey.  My 
dear  mother  first  frowned  when  I  touched  my  hat  to  her, 
and  then  laughed  and  assisted  in  the  fun — giving  me  ficti- 
tious orders,  and  then  scolding  and  threatening  me  for 
forgetting  them. 


*'  POSTING  "  FROM   HABBOGATE   TO   LONDON.  53 

At  one  place  where  we  changed  horses  our  new  attend- 
ant was  a  very  old  post-boy — a  figure  quite  strange  to  the 
present  generation.  He  wore  an  old  white  hat,  a  weather- 
stained  jacket  that  had  once  been  blue,  buckskin  breeches 
"  all  too  wide  for  his  shrunk  shanks,"  and  boots  that  had 
seen  better  days.  I  led  one  of  his  horses  from  the  stable, 
and  tried  to  back  it  into  its  proper  place  in  front  of  the 
carriage.  The  animal,  wiser  than  the  post-boys,  knew 
that  I  was  an  impostor,  and  refused  to  be  directed  by 
me.  He  backed  against  the  carriage-door.  My  mother 
screamed  and  scolded,  and  the  old  post-boy  roared  in  sten- 
torian tones  that  I  thought  ought  to  have  shaken  him  to 
pieces  : 

"  Hold  there,  will  you !  What  are  you  a-doing  of  ? 
Bring  her  here,  can't  you  ?" 

I  meekly  obeyed,  and  resigned  my  charge  to  her  master, 
who  speedily  placed  her  in  her  proper  position. 

"  I  should  say  you  was  a  in-door  servant.  Don't  know 
nothing  about  osses,  eh?"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,"  I  said;  "my  work  is  mostly  in-doors.  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  horses  much." 

"  Then  why  couldn't  you  let  'em  alone  ?  You'd  no  call 
to  meddle.  You'd  a  been  right  served  if  she'd  kicked 
you." 

As  we  approached  nearer  to  London,  the  delusion  be- 
came, if  possible,  more  pronounced. 

"Won't  the  ladies  alight  and  take  some  refreshment?" 
said  a  man,  apparently  the  landlord  of  the  inn  at  which 
we  were  changing  horses. 

The  notion  of  my  mother  alighting  amused  me,  and  I 
went  to  the  carriage-window,  and,  giving  my  hat  the  foot- 
man-touch that  I  knew  so  well,  I  said: 

"  The  landlord  desires  to  know  if  your  grace  will  alight 
and  take  some  refreshment." 

"  Go  along,  you  naughty  boy  !"  said  my  mother.  "  Tell 
him  we  haven't  eaten  half  the  provisions  we  brought  with 
us." 

To  the  landlord  I  said,  respectfully, 

"  Her  ladyship  is  not  very  well,  and  would  rather  not 
alight." 


54  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"Humbug!"  said  the  landlord.  "Jemmy"  —  to  the 
post-boy — "  mind  how  you  go  round  the  corner  after  you 

pass  the  bridge  as  you  go  into "  (some  town,  the 

name  of  which  escapes  me),  "or  you'll  upset  'em,  as  you 
did  the  judge  you  took  to  the  assizes,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  ah  !     I'll  mind,"  said  the  post-boy. 

Now  whether  those  directions  to  our  driver  conveyed 
masked  orders  for  our  destruction  or  not  (in  consequence 
of  her  grace  refusing  to  alight)  will  ever  remain  a  mystery. 
The  landlord's  directions  made  me  very  uneasy,  and  when 
the  distant  bridge  came  into  view  across  the  top  of  the 
carriage — or  rather  on  one  side  of  it — and  the  post-horse 
pace  was  rapidly  increased  till  it  became  exceedingly  like 
a  gallop,  I  felt  that  the  last  moments  of  all  of  us  (except 
the  post-boy)  might  be  alarmingly  near.  Now  we  are  on 
the  bridge;  we  approach  the  corner;  the  carriage  sways 
sideways  past  it,  all  but  over;  we  are  safe  at  the  Bridge 
Inn.  This  was  too  much  for  my  mother.  She  called  the 
driver  to  the  carriage,  and  rated  him  soundly.  "How 
dared  he  drive  in  that  furious  way  !"  etc.,  etc. 

"It's  the  osses,  mum;  I  can't  hold  'em.  Bless  you! 
they  knows  like  Christians  they're  a-nearing  home,  and 
their  grub's  a- waiting  for  'em.  I  couldn't  stop  'em;  but 
you're  all  right.  Why,  t'other  day  we'd  a  upset,  but  no- 
body wasn't  hurt,  and  perhaps  you  wouldn't  a  been  neither." 

"  Go  away,"  said  my  mother,  "  and  send  the  next  driver 
to  me." 

That  person  received  a  warning  that  if  he  pursued  any- 
thing like  the  mad  career  of  his  predecessor  he  would  be 
mulcted  of  the  threepence  a  mile  that  the  post-boy  usually 
received  for  himself. 

One  more  wayside  experience  as  a  footman,  and  I  take 
off  my  phantom  livery.  As  we  drove  up  to  an  inn,  not 
many  miles  from  London,  I  could  see  from  my  perch  in 
the  rumble  that  it  was  blessed  with  a  remarkably  pretty 
barmaid.  From  my  youth  up  I  have  been,  and  ever  shall 
be,  sensible  to  the  charm  of  female  beauty;  and  I  think 
one  glance  at  the  barmaid  was  enough  to  make  her  ac- 
quainted with  that  fact,  sensible  as  she  must  have  been  of 
her  own  attractions.  Besides,  was  I  not  a  fellow-servant? 


"POSTING"  FROM  HABROGA.TE  TO  LONDON.         55 

I  was  young,  so  was  she,  though  a  little  older  than  myself. 
At  that  time  I  despised  any  girl  younger  than  myself;  no\o 
I  am  of  a  different  opinion.  I  talked  to  my  mother  at  the 
carriage-window  for  a  moment,  with  a  very  bright  eye  on 
the  bar-window.  Good  gracious,  she  beckons  me  ! 

"  I  feel  so  thirsty,  mother." 

"  Well,  dear,  go  into  the  house  and  get  something;  and 
here,  take  this  bottle  and  get  it  filled  with  the  best  sherry 
they  have." 

I  went  to  the  bar. 

"Now,  young  man,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

What  a  question  !  She  was  prettier  near  than  at  a  dis- 
tance. 

"  What  will  you  take — what  is  it  to  be  ?"  said  the  pretty 
barmaid;  and  she  kindly  added,  "  Whoever  changes  horses 
here,  the  orders  is  to  give  the  servant  a  glass  of  anything 
they  like  best." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !"  said  I.  "  I  think  I  will  take  a  glass 
of—of—" 

"Try  the  'srub?'"  said  the  barmaid. 

"  What  is  '  srub ?' "  said  I.     (I  really  did  not  know.) 

"  Oh,  come,  that's  a  good  un !  you  pretend  you  don't 
know  what  '  srub'  is  !  There,  that's  it.  Down  with  it ;  it 
will  do  you  good  after  your  journey.  Come  a  long  way  ?" 

The  "srub"  nearly  choked  me  —  filthy  stuff  —  rum,  I 
think. 

"  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  fill  this  bottle  with  the  best 
sherry  you  have  got  ?"  said  I. 

"  Ain't  got  any  best,"  said  the  barmaid;  "  it's  all  best  in 
this  house.  There  you  are;  six  shillings,  please.  Going 
to  London  ?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"Yes." 

"Ah,  I  wish  I  was  going  with  you  !"  said  the  barmaid. 
(I  am  afraid  I  devoutly  wished  she  was.)  "I've  never 
been  to  London;  have  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

Here  we  were  interrupted  by  our  new  post-boy,  who 
said: 

"  Now,  young  fellow,  your  missis  wants  to  know  if  you 
are  going  to  stand  there  jabbering  all  day.  It's  my  opin- 


56  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

ion  you'll  have  to  look  out  for  another  situation  if  you 
don't  mind  what  you're  about." 

We  resumed  our  journey,  and  in  due  time  arrived  at  my 
uncle's  house  in  Brook  Street — not  the  hotel,  but  at  a  pri- 
vate house  in  Upper  Brook  Street,  to  which  he  had  retired 
from  business  in  easy  competence.  We  were  most  kindly 
received,  and  there  we  remained  till  a  house  could  be  found 
for  us.  After  much  searching,  we  found  in  No.  1 1  Osna- 
burgh  Street  a  house  that  suited  us  in  all  respects  save  one 
— there  was  no  decent  painting-room.  But  I  made  the 
best  of  a  small  back  parlor,  in  which  I  painted  my  first 
composition,  and  in  which  I  passed  some  of  the  happiest 
hours  of  my  life;  and  to  that  small  studio  (with  many 
apologies  for  this  interruption  to  my  narrative)  I  now 
return. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

FIRST    ATTEMPTS    AT    "  SUBJECT-PICTURES." 

I  DETERMINED  to  try  my  hand  at  what  we  called  "a 
subject-picture."  My  admiration  of  Cowper  led  me  into 
unconscious  imitation  of  his  manner,  and  after  throes  un- 
utterable I  produced  a  small  composition  of  two  lovers — 
a  reminiscence  of  a  little  affaire  de  cceur  of  my  own.  The 
lady  was  represented  listening  to  vows,  that  were  as  sin- 
cere as  I  could  make  them  appear,  from  a  gentleman  in  a 
Spanish  costume  fresh  from  the  masquerade-shop. 

The  picture  was  sent  to  the  Liverpool  Exhibition,  and 
sold  for  fifteen  pounds.  It  was  long  before  I  could  recon- 
cile myself  to  the  idea  of  being  paid  for  a  portrait;  but 
that  any  idiot  could  be  found  who  would  give  fifteen 
golden  sovereigns  for  a  child  of  my  imagination  astound- 
ed and  delighted  me,  and  at  the  same  time  urged  me  to 
further  effort.  As  I  have  said  earlier  in  this  narrative,  I 
was  a  great  reader  of  Scott.  With  his  novels  I  was  very 
familiar,  less  so  with  his  poetry.  I  read  much  of  the 
poetry,  however,  with  a  view  to  a  picture,  and  fixed  upon 
a  scene  from  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel " — selecting 
the  following  passage  for  illustration : 

"  Full  slyly  smiled  the  observant  page, 
And  gave  the  withered  hand  of  Age 
A  goblet  crowned  with  rosy  wine." 

A  much-needed  refreshment  for  the  old  man  as  he  proceeds 
with  his  long-winded  narrative  to  the  duchess. 

It  was  necessary,  of  course,  to  get  an  old  and,  if  possi- 
ble, a  bearded  model;  but  the  latter  in  those  days  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  find,  as  an  account  given  later  in  these 
reminiscences  of  my  search  after  that  then  rare  individual 
will  show.  I  knew  far  too  little  of  perspective,  and  con- 
3* 


58  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

sequently  the  relative  sizes  of  the  old  man  and  the  page 
puzzled  me  frightfully;  sometimes  their  figures  were  tum- 
bling over  each  other,  and  sometimes  they  were  slipping 
out  of  the  picture.  Do  what  I  would,  I  could  not  make 
their  feet  stand  flat  on  the  floor.  The  boy  had  a  stupid 
giggle  on  his  face,  and  stood  upon  his  toes.  The  old  man's 
beard  insisted  on  looking  as  if  he  had  tied  it  on,  and  its 
annoying  owner  nearly  drove  me  wild  with  his  remarks; 
and  the  girl  who  sat  for  the  page  said,  "  She  never  see 
such  a  face;  it  wasn't  like  her,  she  knew."  Indeed  it  was 
not,  nor  like  any  earthly  thing.  How  well  I  remember 
throwing  down  palette  and  brushes,  and  rushing  out  of 
the  house  in  despair,  and  wandering  about  Chalk  Farm, 
where  pigeon-shooting  was  going  on,  watching  the  pigeons 
as  they  were  knocked  over,  almost  envying  their  fate ! 
After  rubbings  out  and  alterations  innumerable,  the  pict- 
ure was  finished.  O'Neil  and  poor  Cowper  came,  smiled, 
and  said  nothing.  My  old  master  told  me  flatly  I  should 
never  do  anything  as  long  as  I  lived,  and  that  all  his  hard 
work  to  make  an  artist  of  me  had  been  thrown  away. 
This  was  inspiriting!  However,  I  sent  the  "Last  Min- 
strel" to  the  Suffolk  Street  Gallery,  and  it  was  hung 
among  other  specimens  of  imbecility.  The  whole  exhibi- 
tion was  frightfully  criticised  in  the  newspapers,  and  if 
I  were  not  selected  for  especial  abuse,  it  was  evident,  I 
thought,  that  I  was  not  worthy  of  notice. 

In  spite  of  the  practice  I  had  had  in  portrait-painting, 
I  still  felt  great  difficulty  in  painting  flesh;  and  I  there- 
fore made  many  more  studies  from  life,  in  the  hope  of  the 
improvement  that  was  long  a-coming. 

Soon  after  I  ventured  on  another  and  larger  composition 
of  figures,  the  subject  being  from  Scott's  "  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian," and  the  scene  the  interior  of  the  church,  with 
Madge  Wildfire  dragging  Jeanie  Deans  up  the  centre 
aisle,  to  the  amazement  of  the  congregation.  This  was 
considered  to  be  a  great  advance  on  the  "Last  Minstrel," 
and,  indeed,  it  might  be  an  advance  without  going  very 
far;  but  there  was  really  much  more  promise,  and  more 
performance  too,  than  could  have  been  expected  from  the 
miserable  shortcomings  of  the  previous  work.  "  Madge 


FIEST   ATTEMPTS    AT    "SUBJECT-PICTURES."  59 

Wildfire"  also  figured  on  the  walls  of  Suffolk  Street,  and 
I  received  some  compliments  on  the  varnishing-day  which 
greatly  elated  me,  and,  what  was  better,  nerved  me  for 
future  work. 

My  next  attempt  was  on  the  principle  of  "  fools  rushing 
in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,"  a  subject  from  Shakespeare 
— "Othello  and  Desdemona  "  —  and  the  moment  chosen 
was  when  Othello  takes  the  pretty  broad  hint  that  Des- 
demona gives  him,  and  declares  his  love — "  Upon  this  hint 
I  spake."  My  Othello  was  painted  from  an  East  Indian 
crossing-sweeper,  and  Desdemona  from  my  sister;  the  re- 
sult being  a  resemblance  to  the  models  from  whom  I  drew 
the  characters,  and  none  whatever  to  the  characters  that 
Shakespeare  drew.  This  picture  came  into  ray  hands 
many  years  afterwards,  when  I  cut  off  Othello's  legs  as 
well  as  the  lady's,  and  repainted  the  whole  thing;  having 
reduced  the  size  of  the  picture  considerably,  but  I  hope 
added  a  little  to  its  value.  At  the  present  time  Cambridge 
has  the  honor  of  possessing  this  work,  where  it  hangs 
among  a  collection  presented  to  the  Fitzwilliam  Muse- 
um. I  respectfully  wish  the  museum  joy  of  it.  I  sent 
"  Othello  "  to  the  British  Gallery,  accompanied  by  "  Re- 
becca and  Ivanhoe."  The  "  Othello  "  was  hung  in  a  good 
place  ;  the  "  Rebecca,"  a  much  better  picture,  rejected ; 
being  the  only  picture  I  have  ever  had  rejected  from  any 
exhibition. 

No  artist  can  forget  the  first  notice  of  him  by  the  press. 
At  any  rate,  I  shall  always  remember  the  first  public 
criticism  on  a  picture  of  mine.  In  the  Art  Journal,  then 
called  the  Art  Union,  appeared  a  few  lines  of  commenda- 
tion, ending  with,  "The  young  painter  has  given  proof 
that  he  thinks  while  he  labors." 

I  well  remember  attending  a  lecture  given  by  Haydon 
in  the  Suffolk  Street  Galleries,  in  which  he  told  us  one  or 
two  interesting  things — one  on  the  subject  of  public  criti- 
cism. Wilkie's  first  exhibited  picture  was  the  "Village 
Politicians."  Haydon,  Jackson,  and  he  were  intimate 
friends  and  fellow-students.  On  the  day  after  the  pri- 
vate view  at  the  Royal  Academy,  Haydon  having  work 
of  his  own  in  the  exhibition,  "rushed,"  as  he  expressed  it, 


60  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

for  the  morning  papers,  where  he  found  a  favorable  no- 
tice of  Wilkie's  "  Village  Politicians."  He  "  rushed  "  to 
Wilkie's  modest  lodging  in  Sol's  Row,  Hampstead  Road. 
He  and  Jackson  tore  into  the  room  where  Wilkie  was  at 
breakfast,  and  roared: 

"  Wilkie,  my  boy,  your  name  is  in  the  paper  !" 

"  No  !  really .?"  replied  Wilkie  ;  and  then  the  three 
danced  hand-in-hand  round  the  breakfast  table. 

Wilkie's  "No!  really?"  became  so  ludicrously  frequent 
in  his  conversation  that  Haydon  determined  to  try  to 
break  him  of  the  habit,  and  in  course  of  a  conversation 
one  day  in  which  "  No  !  really  ?"  had  cropped  up  with  pro- 
voking frequency,  Haydon  said: 

"  Now,  Wilkie,  you  mustn't  mind  my  telling  you  of  a 
habit  of  yours  which  is  causing  people  to  laugh  at  you. 
To  whatever  is  said  to  you,  you  give  but  one  reply,  the 
two  words,  '  No!  really  ?'  " 

"  No  !  really  ?"  replied  Wilkie. 

In  this  lecture  Haydon  gave  us  some  advice  direct  from 
Vandyke.  A  very  old  lady,  said  he,  who  had  sat  for  her 
portrait  to  Vandyke  in  her  youth,  sat  to  Hudson,  Rey- 
nolds' master,  in  her  old  age.  She  complained  of  the 
darkness  of  her  complexion  as  rendered  by  Hudson,  and 
told  that  artist  "That  Vandyke*s  complexions  were  very 
different,  as  much  too  pale,"  in  her  opinion,  "  as  Hudson's 
were  too  dark."  In  passing  through  Vandyke's  gallery  at 
Blackfriars,  in  which  were  many  pale  pictures,  she  asked 
"why  he  had  painted  with  such  fresh,  pale  colors?" 

"Because,"  said  Vandyke,  "I  have  to  allow  for  the 
darkening  effect  of  time." 

Of  the  truth  of  this  story  there  could  be  no  doubt,  for 
Hudson  told  it  to  Reynolds;  Reynolds  to  Northcote — his 
pupil;  Northcote  to  Haydon  ;  and  Haydon  to  us.  Poor 
Haydon!  for  whose  genius  I  feel  great  respect,  and  for 
whose  sad  fate  profound  pity.  I  knew  very  little  of  him 
personally,  but  I  may  tell  here  of  a  kind  act  of  encourage- 
ment to  myself.  I  -had  painted  and  exhibited  at  the  Brit- 
ish Gallery  a  little  picture  of  "  Dolly  Varden  "  (of  which 
more  afterwards,  as  it  was  the  happy  cause  of  a  friendship 
with  Dickens,  terminated  only  by  his  death);  and  on  going 


FIRST   ATTEMPTS   AT  "SUBJECT-PICTURES."  61 

home  one  afternoon  I  found  my  mother  in  a  great  state  of 
excitement  with  an  address-card  in  her  hand.  She  showed 
it  to  me  without  a  word,  and  I  read  the  name  of  B.  R. 
Haydon.  He  had  left  a  message  with  our  servant  to  the 
effect  that  he  would  like  to  see  me,  after  seeing  "  Dolly 
Polly  What's-her-name,"  as  he  called  her,  in  the  exhibi- 
tion. He  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about  the  picture,  "  which 
you  must  tell  him  I  admired.  Now,  you  won't  forget, 
there's  a  good  girl."  On  the  following  Sunday  I  pre- 
sented myself  at  Haydon's,  and  found  him  with  two  im- 
mense cartoons  before  him,  intended  for  the  competition 
for  the  decoration  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  One  rep- 
resented the  expulsion  from  Paradise,  the  other  the  en- 
try of  the  Black  Prince  into  London,  with  King  John  of 
France  as  a  prisoner.  Haydon  did  not  remember  my 
name,  and  it  was  not  till  I  mentioned  the  "Dolly"  and  his 
call  in  Osnaburgh  Street  that  he  recovered  from  his  sur- 
prise at  a  strange  young  man  calling  upon  him.  He  was 
then  most  kind,  gave  me  excellent  technical  advice,  and 
prophesied  for  me  a  prosperous  career  if  I  could  but  guard 
myself  against  certain  pernicious  practices,  that  seemed 
likely  to  be  as  popular  then  as  other  dangerous,  foolish, 
and  ignorant  views  of  the  real  end  and  aim  of  art  are  now. 
I  thought  the  cartoons  very  fine,  and  said  so.  "  Glad  you 
like  them,"  said  Haydon;  and  then  pointing  to  a  figure  of 
the  devil,  who  was  drawn  watching  the  expulsion  of  Adam 
and  Eve  with  an  awful  smile  of  satisfaction,  "That  is  in- 
tended for  Satan;  do  you  think  it  like  him  ?" 

When  the  time  comes  for  me  to  notice  the  cartoon  com- 
petition, I  shall  have  to  speak  of  Haydon  again;  but  now 
I  must  return  to  my  own  career.  In  the  year  1840  I  ex- 
hibited my  first  Academy  picture;  the  subject  was  "Mal- 
volio,  cross-gartered  before  the  Countess  Olivia."  In  the 
same  exhibition  was  Maclise's  picture  of  the  same  subject, 
now  in  the  National  Gallery — of  which  it  is,  I  think,  an 
ornament;  where  mine  is,  I  know  not,  but  it  could  scarcely 
be  considered  an  ornament  anywhere. 

I  had  no  influence  to  aid  me  in  getting  the  picture  ex- 
hibited, but  my  friend  Williamson,  the  porter,  promised 
to  let  me  know  if  I  were  successful,  and  when  a  pencil 


62  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

note  arrived  in  Osnaburgh  Street  from  the  hand  of  Will- 
iamson, saying  simply,  " Sir,  you  are  hung  safte"  there 
was  joy  among  the  Frith  family,  and  we  had  oysters  for 
supper. 

With  a  beating  heart  I  waited  for  the  opening  of  the 
exhibition.  I  went  hurriedly  through  the  rooms,  and 
could  see  nothing  of  my  picture.  Presently  I  saw  Will- 
iamson, who  read  my  anxiety  in  my  face.  "  You're  all 
right,  sir;  come  here  and  I'll  show  you;"  and  he  took  me 
into  the  Architecture  Room,  and  pointed  out  Malvolio's 
yellow  stockings  at  the  tip-top  of  the  room. 

Could  that  dirty-looking  thing,  that  seemed  as  if  ink 
had  been  rubbed  all  over  it,  be  my  bright  picture  ?  There 
was  no  mistake  about  that,  but  how  changed  !  To  the 
uninitiated  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  the  change 
that  appears  to  come  over  a  picture  when  surrounded  by 
others  in  a  public  exhibition,  and  subject  to  the  glare  of 
unaccustomed  lights  and  the  glitter  of  gold  frames,  with 
the  ruinous  reflections  from  all  sides.  A  story  is  told  of 
an  artist  who  sent  to  the  Royal  Academy  a  half-length 
portrait  of  an  admiral;  it  was  his  first  exhibit,  and,  being  a 
very  excellent  picture,, was  placed  on  the  line  in  one  of 
the  best  rooms,  and  flanked  by  pictures  of  academicians 
on  each  side.  In  early  days  the  royal  academicians  had 
varnishing-days,  but  denied  them  to  outsiders.  One  of 
the  academicians,  who  found  himself,  or  rather  his  pict- 
ure, to  be  the  immediate  neighbor  of  the  admiral,  was,  or 
thought  he  was,  terribly  damaged  by  the  bright  blue  coat 
and  realistic  gold  epaulets  of  the  naval  warrior.  All  his 
efforts  to  "  paint  up  "  to  the  destructive  picture  were  un- 
availing, so  he  took  a  full  brush  of  glazing  color  and  toned 
down  the  admiral.  When  the  author  of  that  work  cast 
his  eyes  upon  it  on  the  opening  day,  he  exclaimed  to  a 
friend,  "I  have  heard  of  the  effect  of  the  exhibition  upon 
pictures,  but  I  will  not  believe  the  change  in  mine  is  pro- 
duced in  that  way.  JVb,  by  Jove! — look  here  ;  some  of 
those  dashed  R.A.'s  have  been  at  it!  I  can  see  the  glaze 
all  over  it."  A  formal  complaint  was  made  to  the  coun- 
cil; the  guilty  R.A.  acknowledged  his  crime,  was  repri- 
manded, and  a  by-law  was  made,  ordering  that  no 


FIKST   ATTEMPTS   AT   "SUBJECT-PICTURES."  63 

academician  or  other  exhibitor  should,  under  grievous 
penalties,  dare  to  paint  on  anybody's  picture  but  his  own. 
I  had  never  heard  of  the  crime  or  the  order  arising  out 
of  it  until  after  I  was  an  associate.  At  the  request  of 
my  friend  Egg  I  was  making  some  trifling  alterations  in 
his  picture,  when  one  of  the  council  came  to  me,  and,  per- 
emptorily ordering  me  to  stop,  told  me  the  story  of  "  ton- 
ing down  the  admiral." 

All  this  time  my  profession  was  not  providing  me  with 
income  enough  to  "  pay  for  my  washing,"  as  my  uncle  put 
it.  Instead  of  living  to  see  the  days  of  my  success,  my 
father  had  died  before  I  was  heard  of  as  an  artist.  My 
aunt,  whose  sight  I  must  say  was  somewhat  impaired, 
could  see  "  nothing  whatever  to  admire  in  your  pictures, 
Master  William;"  and  as  to  anybody  buying  one,  I  had 
never,  up  to  1840,  received  a  farthing  for  any  of  my 
pictures.  After  my  Liverpool  fifteen -pound  triumph,  I 
either  gave  them  away  to  people  who  didn't  want  them, 
but  were  too  polite  to  refuse  them,  or  I  sold  them  to 
people  who  forgot  to  pay  even  the  modest  sura  demanded. 

The  "  Madge  Wildfire  "  became  the  property  of  an  artist 

friend,  who  never  paid  for  it,  because,  as  he  said  when  I 

remonstrated,  "  I  couldn't  sell   it,   and  was  obliged   to 

.change  it  for  a  piano  for  my  sister,  and  the  piano  hasn't 

got  a  note  to  its  back." 

The  "Malvolio"  was  bought  by  a  picture-dealer  for 
twenty  pounds,  and  he  became  a  bankrupt  immediately 
afterwards. 

In  short,  if  I  hadn't  been  possessed  of  a  dear  old  mother 
who  ministered  to  all  my  wants,  I  must  have  gone  auction- 
eering after  all.  "And  a  precious  deal  better  for  you, 
sir,"  said  my  uncle,  "than  this  ridiculous  business  of 
yours." 

Under  these  circumstances  I  thought  it  very  fortunate 
that  I  had  another  call  for  Lincolnshire  portraits.  Some 
of  those  I  had  painted  on  my  first  visits  were  thought  good 
likenesses;  sufficiently  so,  at  any  rate,  to  induce  a  demand 
for  more.  This  time  I  was  more  conscientious  and  care- 
ful in  my  work  than  ever,  and  the  result  was  a  considera- 
ble improvement  all  round. 


64  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I  found  myself  employed  by  a  higher  class  of  clients; 
among  them  was  a  fox-hunting  squire,  a  magistrate  and  a 
hater  of  poachers,  every  one  of  whom  when  brought  be- 
fore him  he  would  have  hanged  if  he  could.  He  was  a 
fine-looking  old  fellow,  with  a  very  handsome  family  of 
sons  and  daughters.  A  domestic  trouble  had  driven  his 
wife,  a  most  lovely  creature,  away  from  her  home.  The 
story  went  that  she  declared  with  many  tears  that  she  was 
innocent  of  the  sin  imputed  to  her,  and  on  her  knees 
prayed  for  blindness  "if  she  were  false  in  word  or 
deed." 

The  proofs  of  her  guilt,  however,  were  overwhelming, 
and  sbe  was  sent  to  Wales,  where  she  lived  many  years, 
and  became  totally  blind!  She  was  allowed  at  last  to  re- 
turn and  inhabit  a  little  cottage  in  her  husband's  park, 
where  her  family,  now  grown  up,  occasionally  visited  her, 
but  the  squire  never.  Although  she,  being  sightless,  need 
not  have  known  of  his  visit,  if  he  had  chosen  to  pay  her 
one,  nothing  would  induce  him  to  go  near  her.  At  last 
the  inevitable  hour  came  to  her,  as  it  will  come  to  all  of 
us.  I  had  heard  she  was  dangerously  ill,  and,  during  one 
of  the  last  sittings  for  the  portrait,  as  I  was  working  away, 
listening  to  the  squire's  stories,  his  eldest  son  came  into 
our  temporary  studio  with  very  red  eyes,  and  said  some- 
thing in  an  undertone  to  his  father. 

"No!"  said  the  old  squire,  "  I  will  not.?"  and  the  son 
left  the  room. 

"Pray  don't  think  of  me  or  the  picture,  squire,"  said  I. 
"  I  have  very  little  to  do  to  finish  the  sitting,  and  can  do 
it  almost  as  well  without  you,  if  you  want — " 

"  Did  you  see  that  boy  ?"  broke  in  the  squire  (the  boy 
was  over  thirty) ;  "  he  has  been  crying,  a  great  fellow  like 
that.  And  for  what  ? — troubling  himself  about  his  mother, 
who  has  done  nothing  all  her  life  but  trouble  us.  I  go  to 
see  her  !  I'll  see  her —  But  there,  go  on  with  your  work;" 
and  before  I  had  finished  my  work  the  poor  woman  had 
died  without  her  husband's  forgiveness,  for  which,  I  was 
told,  she  implored  with  bitter  tears. 

Soon  after  this  my  second  "  provincial  tour  "  of  portrait- 
painting  came  to  an  end,  and  again  I  returned  to  the  little 


FIRST    ATTEMPTS    AT  "SUBJECT-PICTURES."  65 

back  parlor  in  Osnaburgh  Street,  this  time  determined  to 
rival  my  artist  friends,  who  were  all  more  or  less  success- 
fully engaged  in  painting  subject-pictures,  exhibiting  them 
(when  or  where  they  could  get  them  admitted),  and  some- 
times, though  not  always,  selling  them. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MY     FIRST     SUCCESS. 

THE  Art  Union  had  been  established  some  little  time, 
and  had  been  the  means  of  assisting  many  young  painters, 
who  without  such  aid  would  have  been  compelled  to  aban- 
don their  profession.  Good  and  evil  are  mixed  together  in 
all  human  institutions,  and  the  Art  Union  of  London  is  an 
example  of  the  truth  of  the  rule.  Subscribers  to  that  lot- 
tery are  allowed  to  select  their  picture  prizes,  and  the 
consequence  is  that  works  of  indifferent  merit  are  often 
chosen,  and  men  are  encouraged  in  the  pursuit  of  a.rt  who 
ought  never  to  have  studied  it  at  all.  So  much  for  the  mis- 
chief of  the  Art  Union.  For  the  other  side,  instances 
could  be  shown  of  pictures  of  undoubted  merit  having 
escaped  from  being  returned  unsold  to  their  producers,  by 
enlightened  selectors  of  Art  Union  prizes.  For  example, 
Maclise's  picture  of  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty  "  was  the  chief 
prize  in  the  year  1 840.  My  admiration  for  Maclise,  owing 
much  to  youthful  and,  I  fear,  somewhat  mistaken  enthusi- 
asm, scarcely  stopped  short  of  worship — his  power  of  draw- 
ing, his  prodigality  of  invention,  the  facility  with  which 
he  grouped  crowds  of  figures,  and  the  splendor  of  imagina- 
tion displayed  in  all  he  did,  carried  me  away  captive,  and 
influenced  my  practice  to  its  detriment. 

Under  happier  circumstances  I  have  always  believed, 
and  still  believe,  that  Maclise  would  have  been  one  of  the 
greatest  artists  that  ever  lived,  if  his  birth  had  been  put 
back  two  or  three  centuries,  and  he  had  been  coerced  as 
the  great  masters  were,  and  subjected  to  a  seven  years' 
apprenticeship  to  one  of  the  old  Venetians.  Then  the  re- 
dundancy of  his  imagination  and  the  facility  with  which 
he  produced  its  images  would  have  been  subjected  to  a 
discipline  that  would  have  enforced  a  continual  study  of 


MY   FIBST  SUCCESS.  67 

nature,  and  a  constant  copying  from  it,  in  everything  he 
would  have  been  permitted  to  attempt.  Instead  of  such 
mediaeval  training,  after  a  perfunctory  education  at  the 
Royal  Academy,  the  bright  young  fellow  was  left  to  his 
own  unaided  and  "  Will-o'-the-wisp  "  efforts.  His  great 
natural  powers  betrayed  him  ;  he  painted  huge  composi- 
tions of  figures  without  using  models.  His  sense  of  color, 
never  very  strong,  was  destroyed  by  his  constant  indul- 
gence in  the  baleful  practice  of  painting  without  nature 
before  him.  His  eyes,  as  he  told  me  himself,  saw  the  mi- 
nutest details  at  distances  impossible  to  ordinary  vision. 
He  was  evidently  proud  of  his  eyes,  and  he  indulged  them 
to  the  utter  destruction  of  "  breadth  "  in  his  pictures.  As 
to  color,  he  gave  it  up  altogether;  and  when  any  reference 
was  made  to  the  old  masters  or  the  National  Gallery, 
Maclise  expressed  his  contempt  in  much  the  same  words 
as  those  of  another  mistaken  clever  brother  R.A.,  who 
would  "  like  to  burn  them  all  from  Moscow  to  Madrid." 

I  would  not  have  attempted  this  autobiography  if  I  had 
not  possessed  myself  with  the  hope  of  being  of  service  to 
my  young  brethren,  either  in  the  way  of  warning  from  my 
own  mistakes,  or  from  those  of  others  ;  and  I  take  Maclise 
as  a  specially  typical  instance  of  the  perversion  of  remark- 
able powers.  As  a  man,  Maclise,  whom  I  knew  well  in 
after-life,  was  delightful  in  every  way;  very  handsome  in 
person,  and  of  a  generous  and  noble  disposition  ;  enthusi- 
astic in  his  appreciation  of  contemporary  work,  free  from 
the  slightest  taint  of  envy  of  others,  and  universally  re- 
gretted when  he  died,  after  having  scarcely  passed  middle 
life.  The  last  speech  Dickens  made  in  public  was  at  the 
Academy  banquet  following  Maclise's  death,  when  the 
great  writer,  in  a  few  pathetic  and  eloquent  words,  never 
to  be  forgotten — lamenting  the  untimely  death  of  his 
friend — declared  his  belief,  that  if,  instead  of  art,  literature 
had  been  Maclise's  aim,  a  great  or  greater  success  than  that 
he  had  achieved  in  art  would  have  attended  him  in  letters. 

I  have  said  that  my  worship  of  Maclise  resulted  in  some 
damage  to  myself.  Of  course,  I  copied  his  faults.  His 
facility  of  design  being  beyond  my  power  of  imitation,  I 
fell  back  on  his  love  of  detail,  and  the  absence  of  truth 


68  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

and  nature  in  the  coloring  of  his  flesh;  and  these  failings 
I  reproduced  so  successfully  as  to  give  me  afterwards  enor- 
mous trouble  to  correct.  I  remember  a  young  artist  friend 
saying  to  me:  "Maclise  is  out  and  away  the  greatest  artist 
that  ever  lived.  There  isn't  an  old  master  fit  to  hold  a 
candle  to  him;  and  if  I  could  only  get  some  of  his  worst 
qualities  into  my  pictures  I  should  be  satisfied." 

I  confess  I  shared  those  foolish  sentiments  to  a  great 
extent ;  but  I  speedily  found  out  my  mistake — a  condition 
of  mind  I  heartily  desire  for  some  young  painters  who  at 
this  time  are  worshipping  false  gods,  with  bodies  of  brass 
and  feet  of  clay;  at  whose  shrine  the  chief  high -priest  is  a 
mountebank  without  the  excuse  of  ignorance  or  want  of 
capacity  to  explain  the  prostitution  of  talents,  if  not  genius, 
to  purposes  so  absurd  as  to  make  it  a  world's  wonder  how 
any  followers  of  such  a  craze  can  exist  for  a  moment. 

Until  a  young  painter  finds  out  his  natural  bent — if  he 
have  one — he  is  apt  not  only  to  imitate  the  manner  of  his 
favorite  artist,  but  to  try  to  paint  similar  subjects,  illus- 
trate the  same  book  or  poem,  or  in  some  way  or  other  fol- 
low in  the  revered  footsteps.  Strong-headed  men  avoid 
this  pitfall.  I  fell  into  it,  and  when  Maclise  painted  men  in 
armor,  I  did  a  man  in  armor  too.  Maclise  had  done  a  lady 
in  a  red  jacket  taking  leave  of  a  knight  in  armor — one  of 
the  finest  things  ever  done  in  the  world,  I  thought — and  I 
immediately  tried  to  do  something  like  it.  My  man  was 
also  a  knight  who,  having  alighted  at  an  inn  for  refresh- 
ment, and  finding  himself  waited  upon  by  a  damsel  in  a  red 
jacket,  proceeded  to  demean  himself  in  a  somewhat  un- 
gentlemanly,  and  therefore  unknightly,  fashion.  He  had 

"  Carved  his  meal 
With  gloves  of  steel," 

and  probably  taken  more  Malvoisie  than  was  good  for  him, 
and  forthwith  made  desperate  love  to  the  maid;  who  with 
a  smiling  countenance  listened  to  his  raptures,  expressed 
by  a  hideous  grin  on  his  bearded  face,  as  with  one  arm 
round  the  red  waist  and  the  other  raised  on  high,  holding 
the  brimming  cup,  he  vowed  eternal  constancy,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind. 

I  don't  know  what  became  of  that  great  work.     If  the 


MY    FIRST   SUCCESS.  69 

possessor  should  by  chance  read  these  lines,  I  hope  he  will 
be  induced  to  allow  me  to  see  my  early  friend  once  more. 
In  it  I  succeeded  so  well  in  reproducing  nearly  all  Maclise's 
worst  qualities  that  a  candid  friend  said  on  seeing  "The 
Knight  and  Maid  of  the  Hostelry" — as  I  christened  the 
picture — "Hullo!  you  are  coming  Maclise  over  us.  I'll 
tell  you  what,  old  fellow,  that  thing  will  be  sold  for  a  bad 
Maclise  some  day,  and  you  will  have  an  action  brought 
against  you." 

Armor,  with  its  sheen  and  glitter,  has  always  been  in 
favor  with  young  painters,  either  as  an  important  factor 
in  still  life,  or  as  an  inspiration,  often  the  sole  inspiration, 
in  pictures  of  chivalrous  character.  I  remember  one,  the 
production  of  a  young  friend  of  Dickens,  of  whom  I  shall 
have  more  to  say  hereafter.  The  picture  represented  a 
very  ancient  and  noble-looking  knight,  who  had  sunk  down 
at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree,  overcome  with  the  fatigue  of 
his  journey  from  the  wars,  within  what  appeared  to  be 
easy  reach  of  his  castle,  the  battlements  of  which  were 
visible  among  the  trees.  Some  children,  also  apparently 
of  noble  birth — his  grandchildren,  perhaps — were  timidly 
offering  him  some  apples,  the  produce  in  all  probability 
of  the  orchard  in  which  the  old  man  was  resting.  I  knew 
Dickens  took  great  interest  in  the  young  artist,  and  in 
this  his  first  work,  and  meeting  him  one  day,  I  asked  his 
opinion. 

"  A  capital  picture,"  said  Dickens,  in  his  hearty  way. 
"I  was  delighted  to  see  it.  Armor  beautifully  done. 
Apples  too — only  I  think  the  old  boy  was  too  far  gone  for 
apples.  It  would  require  burnt  brandy,  and  a  good  deal 
of  it,  to  bring  him  to." 

The  year  following  the  exhibition  of  my  "Malvolio"  I 
sent  to  the  Academy  a  picture  from  "  Kenilworth;"  the 
subject  was  an  interview  between  Leicester  and  his  Count- 
ess Amy,  when,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  wicked  earl's 
stolen  visits  to  Cumnor  Place,  he  is  anxious  to  free  himself 
from  the  lady's  importunity,  and  in  reply  to  her  remon- 
strance, "  Did  ever  lady  with  bare  foot  in  slipper  seek  boon 
of  brave  knight,  yet  return  with  denial?"  he  says:  "Any- 
thing, Amy,  that  thou  canst  ask  I  will  grant,  except  that 


70  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

which  will  ruin  us  both."  All  this  simply  because  the 
poor  woman  desired  that  her  marriage  should  be  no  longer 
kept  secret.  I  had  been  to  Knole  House — that  delightful 
hunting-ground  for  artists,  now  unhappily  closed  to  us — 
and  had  made  studies  of  King  James's  bed  and  other  de- 
tails for  my  picture,  all  of  which  I  painted  very  carefully; 
and  the  result  was,  that  as  human  beings  are  more  difficult 
to  render  than  chairs  and  bedsteads,  my  picture  was  more 
admired  for  the  still-life  objects  than  for  the  living  creat- 
ures. Once  more  I  figured  in  the  Architecture  Room,  but 
lower  on  the  wall,  and  I  entirely  escaped  the  notice  of  both 
critics  and  purchasers.  What  became  of  my  Kenilworth 
picture,  or  whether  it  was  sold  or  given  away — the  latter 
most  likely — I  cannot  remember. 

My  delusion  with  regard  to  Maclise  was  soon  over,  so 
far  as  imitation  of  his  manner  was  concerned;  but  the  ex- 
ample set  by  him  in  illustrating  "  Gil  Bias "  and  the 
"  Vicar  of  Wakefield "  caused  so  many  Vicars  and  Gil 
Biases  to  blossom  on  the  walls  of  the  exhibitions  from  the 
hands  of  many  admirers,  that  the  critics  fell  foul  of  us;  and 
Thackeray,  who  was  the  critic  in  Fraser  of  that  day,  de- 
clined to  give  the  name  of  either  Gil  Bias  or  the  Vicar  in 

full,  but  always  wrote  of  the  latter  as  the  "V r  of 

"W d,"  and  warned  us  that  if  our  servile  conduct  was 

persevered  in,  he  would  never  look  at  pictures  of  either 
of  those  distinguished  individuals,  much  less  write  about 
them. 

I  now  come  to  what  I  may  call  my  first  success,  and  the 
subject  was  taken  from  the  much-tormented  "Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  the  scene  being  that  in  which  Mrs.  Primrose 
makes  her  daughter  and  Squire  Thornhill  stand  up  to- 
gether to  see  which  is  the  taller,  a  transparent  device 
which,  as  the  good  old  book  says,  she  thought  impenetra- 
ble. To  my  intense  delight  this  picture  was  hung  upon 
the  line,  that  envied,  coveted  position  which  so  many  are 
destined  to  long  for,  but  never  to  occupy.  I  confess  I  was 
as  much  astonished  as  I  was  delighted,  for  I  had  no  inter- 
est, not  knowing  a  single  member  of  the  Academy. 

Acting  upon  what  I  thought  the  wildest  advice,  I  fixed 
the  price  of  a  hundred  guineas  upon  the  picture,  and  it 


MY   FIRST  SUCCESS.  71 

was  bought  on  the  Private-View  day  by  an  Art  Union 
prize-holder,  Mr.  Zouch  Troughton,  who  is  now  my  very 
old  friend.  My  cup  was  full. 

"  Never,"  said  I  to  an  artist  friend,  who  I  thought  might 
have  congratulated  me  on  my  success,  "  will  I  be  off  the 
line  again !" 

"  Never  be  on  it  again,  you  mean,"  was  the  reply.  "  And 
if  you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  go  as  often  as  you  can 
to  the  exhibition  and  enjoy  yourself,  for  you  may  never 
have  another  chance." 

As  poor  Haydon  said  to  us  in  his  lecture  on  the  subject 
of  Public  Criticism,  "It  is  no  doubt  pleasant  to  read 
printed  praise  attached  to  your  name  ;  but  if  you  live 
long  enough  you  will  find  your  name  in  the  papers  in  a 
form  that  will  make  you  wish  it  out  again." 

I  was  not  long  in  experiencing  the  truth  of  this.  One 
criticism  on  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  picture  in  a  lead- 
ing paper  began  thus:  "  Mr.  Frith  is  a  rising  artist,  and  he 
has  already  risen  to  the  height  of  affectation,"  etc.,  etc. 
This  is  all  I  can  remember,  but  much  more  of  similar 
severity  followed. 

I  would  here  advise  all  artists,  young  and  old,  never 
to  read  art  criticism.  Nothing  is  to  be  learned  from  it. 
Let  me  ask  any  painter  if,  when  he  wants  advice  upon 
any  difficulty  in  the  conduct  of  his  work,  he  would  seek  it 
from  an  art  critic  ?  No,  I  reply  for  him;  he  would  apply 
to  an  artist  friend.  But  though,  as  I  believe,  no  advantage 
accrues  in  any  case  to  an  artist  from  public  criticism, 
much  undeserved  pain  is  often  inflicted,  and  even  injury 
caused,  by  the  virulent  attacks  that  sometimes  disgrace 
the  press.  For  very  many  years — indeed,  ever  since  I  be- 
came convinced  of  the  profound  ignorance  of  the  writers 
— I  have  never  read  a  word  of  art  criticism.  "That  ac- 
counts for  your  not  painting  better,"  I  hear  the  critic  say. 
I  think  not;  but  I  have  no  doubt  saved  myself  from  a 
good  deal  of  annoyance. 

I  have  said  before  that  I  believe  little  or  no  envy  of 
each  other's  success  exists  among  artists  ;  but  my  friend 
who  prophesied  no  more  "  line  "  space  for  me  was  an  ex- 
ception to  the  rule.  If  ever  there  was  a  disappointed 


V2  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

artist  he  was  one,  and  be  candidly  showed  his  disappoint- 
ment and  envy  on  all  available  occasions.  He  was  a  por- 
trait-painter, when  he  could  induce  anybody  to  sit  to  him, 
and  he  sometimes  painted  tolerable  portraits;  but  when 
they  failed  he  fell  foul  of  Shakespeare  and  other  poets. 
He  once  told  me  of  what  he  called  a  piece  of  rudeness 
offered  to  him  by  a  sitter,  whose  portrait  was  better-look- 
ing than  the  original  in  everybody's  eyes  but  his  own.  At 
first  the  victim  refused  to  pay,  but  yielded  after  pressure. 
He  then  said  to  my  friend:  "Well,  loads  of  my  friends 
have  seen  my  likeness,  and  they  say  it  is  TOLERABLE — and 
it  may  be;  a  man  can't  judge  of  his  own  appearance — but 
I  bargained  for  a  GOOD  picture,  not  a  tolerable  picture. 
Plow  would  you  like  a  tolerable  egg  ?" 

I  remember  walking  down  Portland  Place  with  my 
friend,  who  had  suffered  from  a  long  interregnum  of  sit- 
ters, and,  looking  up  at  the  statety  houses,  he  said:  "  There, 
just  look  at  that  place — what  tremendous  rooms  there 
must  be  in  it !  what  walls  for  whole  lengths  !  And  just 
look  at  that  old  fellow  coming  out  —  there's  a  picture! 
and  I  can't  get  a  single  thing  to  do  !" 

There  is  no  doubt  that  premature  success  sometimes 
turns  the  heads  of  young  artists.  Everybody  has  heard  of 
"  Single-speech  Hamilton."  That  orator  was  a  member  of 
Parliament,  and  once — and  once  only — he  made  a  brilliant 
speech.  So  remarkable  was  it,  that  his  elevation  to  high 
honor  was  considered  to  be  assured.  Single-picture  paint- 
ers crop  up  now  and  then — I  have  seen  several  examples. 

For  myself,  I  can  truly  say  my  success  acted  as  a  spur 
to  further  exertion,  and  so  sure  did  I  feel  that  I  had  a  fair 
field  and  no  favor,  that  I  instantly  set  about  a  large  com- 
position, consisting  of  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  characters  in 
the  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  assembled  in  front  of 
Page's  house — Falstaff,  sweet  Anne  Page,  Slender,  and  the 
fat  man's  followers.  Millais  sat  for  me  for  Mrs.  Page's 
little  son,  and  I  thought  I  was  fortunate  in  realizing  many 
of  the  characters.  The  picture  was  large,  elaborately  fin- 
ished, and  it  went  to  the  Academy,  followed  by  much 
condemnation  from  friends,  and  a  good  deal  of  satisfac- 
tion from  myself. 


MY   FIRST   SUCCESS.  73 

None  but  artists  know  the  dreadful  anxiety  of  those 
weeks  of  waiting  till  the  fate  of  many  months  of  labor  is 
decided.  I  was  anxious  enough ;  but  as  I  knew  I  had  im- 
proved, I  could  not  conceive  the  possibility  of  one  effort 
being  thought  worthy  of  one  of  the  best  places  in  the  ex- 
hibition, and  another,  after  a  year's  experience,  being  only 
thought  deserving  of  the  worst.  Such,  however,  was  my 
unhappy  fate.  In  the  worst  room's  worst  light  hung  my 
unfortunate  picture.  Very  high,  opposite  the  wretched 
little  window  of  the  dreadful  Octagon  Room,  was  thought 
a  sufficiently  good  position  for  Falstaff  and  his  friends. 
Again,  if  I  had  been  quite  dependent  on  my  profession 
for  my  bread  I  must  have  starved,  and  to  this  hour  I  feel 
I  was  treated  unjustly. 

I  well  remember  dear,  kind  Etty  mounting  some  steps 
to  look  at  my  work,  and  when  he  descended  he  pressed 
my  hand,  and  in  his  gentle  voice  he  said,  "  Very  cruel, 
very  cruel." 

The  subsequent  fate  of  the  picture  should  be  related. 
After  the  close  of  the  R.A.  Exhibition  I  sent  it  to  Liver- 
pool, where  it  must  have  been  better  seen,  for  it  found  a 
purchaser  for  a  hundred  pounds.  At  my  request  the 
owner  allowed  me  to  exhibit  the  picture  again  in  London. 
At  that  time  the  British  Institution  existed,  and  it  was 
mostly  filled  with  pictures  which  had  been  previously  seen 
at  the  Academy. 

Without  a  sanguine  expectation  of  success  I  sent  in  my 
work,  and  it  was  hung  in  a  centre  place  on  the  line.  When 
I  entered  the  gallery  on  the  varnishing-day,  one  of  the 
three  academicians  who  had  condemned  Falstaff  to  the 
Octagon  Room  was  looking  at  my  work,  and  evidently 
speaking  of  it  to  a  friend  of  mine. 

"  What  does  the  old  wretch  say  ?"  said  I,  as  I  drew  my 
friend  on  one  side. 

"  Why,  he  says,  if  your  picture  had  been  in  the  state  it 
now  is,  it  would  have  had  a  first-rate  place  at  the  Academy. 
He  says  you  have  worked  all  over  it,  and  improved  it  won- 
derfully." 

"  And  did  you  tell  him  it  had  never  been  touched  since 
he  murdered  it  ?" 
4 


74  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   EEMINISCENCES. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  he  said  he  didn't  believe  a  word  of 
that." 

One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  besetting  me  has  always 
been  the  choice  of  subject.  My  inclination  being  strong- 
ly towards  the  illustration  of  modern  life,  I  had  read  the 
works  of  Dickens  in  the  hope  of  finding  material  for  the 
exercise  of  any  talent  I  might  possess;  but  at  that  time 
the  ugliness  of  modern  dress  frightened  me,  and  it  was  not 
till  the  publication  of  "Barnaby  Rudge,"  and  the  delight- 
ful Dolly  Varden  was  presented  to  us,  that  I  felt  uy  oppor- 
tunity had  come,  with  the  cherry-colored  mantle  and  the 
hat  and  pink  ribbons. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  convey  to  the  p'resent  generation 
the  intense  delight  with  which  each  new  work  of  Dick- 
ens was  received;  and  I  can  easily  believe  the  story  that 
was  current  at  the  time  of  the  sick  man,  who,  lying  as  was 
thought  on  his  death-bed,  and  listening  apparently  with  be- 
coming reverence  to  the  warnings  of  his  clergyman,  was 
heard  to  mutter  as  the  divine  left  the  room,  "  That's  all 
very  well.  Thank  goodness,  a  new  number  of  "Pickwick" 
comes  out  on  "Wednesday." 

I  found  a  capital  model  for  Dolly,  and  I  painted  her  in 
a  variety  of  attitudes.  First,  where  she  is  admiring  a 
bracelet  given  her  by  Miss  Haredale;  then  as  she  leans 
laughing  against  a  tree;  then,  again,  in  an  interview  with 
Miss  Haredale,  where  she  is  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  that 
lady's  lover;  and,  again,  when  on  being  accused  of  a  pen- 
chant for  Joe,  she  declares,  indignantly,  "  She  hoped  she 
could  do  better  than  that,  indeed  !" 

These  pictures  easily  found  purchasers,  though  for  sums 
small  enough.  The  laughing  Dolly,  afterwards  engraved, 
became  very  popular,  replicas  of  it  being  made  for  Dickens' 
friend,  John  Forster,  and  others. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  I  had  read  all  that  Dickens 
had  written,  beginning  with  the  "  Sketches  by  Boz  ;"  and 
I  can  well  remember  my  disappointment  when  I  found 
that  the  real  name  of  the  author  was  Dickens.  I  refused 
to  believe  that  such  a  genius  could  have  such  a  vulgar 
name;  and  now  what  a  halo  surrounds  it ! 

I  had  never  seen  the  man,  who,  in  my  estimation,  was, 


MY    FIRST   SUCCESS.  75 

and  is,  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  that  ever  lived;  my 
sensations  therefore  may  be  imagined  when  I  received  the 
following  letter: 

"  1  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE,  YORK  GATE,  REGENT'S  PARK, 

"November  15,  1842. 

"Mr  DEAR  SIR, — I  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  paint 
me  two  little  companion  pictures ;  one  a  Dolly  Vardcn  (whom  you  have  BO 
exquisitely  done  already),  the  other,  a  Kate  Nicklcby. 

"  Faithfully  yours  always,  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

"P.S. — I  take  it  for  granted  that  the  original  picture  of  Dolly  with  the 
bracelet  is  sold." 

My  mother  and  I  cried  over  that  letter,  and  the  wonder 
is  that  anything  is  left  of  it,  for  I  showed  it  to  every  friend 
I  had,  and  was  admired  and  envied  by  all. 

And  now  came  the  fear  that  I  might  fail  in  again  satis- 
fying the  author. 

Kate  Nickleby,  too  !  Impossible,  perhaps,  to  please  the 
author  of  her  being  with  my  presentment  of  her — but  I 
must  try.  And  many  were  the  sketches  I  made,  till  I 
fixed  upon  a  scene  at  Madame  Mantalini's  —  where  Kate 
figures  as  a  workwoman — the  point  chosen  being  at  the 
moment  when  her  thoughts  wander  from  her  work,  as  she 
sits  sewing  a  ball-dress  spread  upon  her  knees. 

Dolly  Varden  was  represented  tripping  through  the 
woods,  and  looking  back  saucily  at  her  lover. 

The  pictures  were  finished,  and  a  letter  was  written  to 
say  so.  See  me  then  in  hourly  and  very  trembling  expec- 
tation of  a  visit  from  a  man  whom  I  thought  superhuman. 
A  knock  at  the  door.  "  Come  in."  Enter  a  pale  young 
man  with  long  hair,  a  white  hat,  a  formidable  stick  in  his 
left  hand,  and  his  right  extended  to  me  with  frank  cordi- 
ality, and  a  friendly  clasp,  that  never  relaxed  till  the  day 
of  his  untimely  death. 

The  pictures  were  on  the  easel  He  sat  down  before 
them,  and  I  stood  waiting  for  the  verdict  in  an  agony  of 
mind  that  was  soon  relieved  by  his  cheery — 

"  All  I  can  say  is,  they  are  exactly  what  I  meant,  and  I 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  painting  them  for  me." 

I  muttered  something,  and  if  I  didn't  look  very  foolish, 
my  looks  belied  my  sensations. 


76  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  home  on  Sunday  afternoon  ?  I  should 
like  to  bring  Mrs.  Dickens  and  my  sister-in-law  to  see  how 
well  you  have  done  your  work.  May  I  ?" 

"  By  all  means.     I  shall  be  delighted." 

Sunday  came,  and  Dickens  with  it. 

I  was  standing  at  the  house-door,  when  a  carriage  driven 
by  "  Boz  "  drove  up  to  it,  the  bright  steel  bar  in  front  giv- 
ing the  "  turn-out "  a  very  striking  appearance  to  one  like 
myself  not  at  all  accustomed  to  curricles.  'Tis  enough  to 
say  the  ladies  approved,  and  Dickens  gave  me  a  check  for 
forty  pounds  for  the  two  pictures. 

I  hope  I  may  be  excused  for  telling  in  this  place  that 
"Dolly"  and  her  companion  were  sold  at  Christie's,  after 
Dickens'  death,  for  thirteen  hundred  guineas.  I  am  ig- 
norant of  the  local  habitation  of  either  of  the  pictures  at 
the  present  time.  That  "  Dolly,"  quite  the  best  of  the 
series,  was  never  engraved.  "  Kate  Nickleby  "  was  more 
fortunate.  An  engraver  applied  through  me  to  Dickens, 
who  readily  consented  to  part  with  the  picture  for  a  "  rea- 
sonable time." 

It  appeared  that  a  difference  of  opinion  existed  between 
Dickens  and  the  engraver  as  to  the  meaning  of  that  phrase, 
for  after  waiting  for  his  picture  for  two  or  three  years,  I 
received  from  Dickens  the  following  evidence  that  his  pa- 
tience was  becoming  exhausted: 

"  Advertisement. 

"  To  K — e  N y  (the  young  lady  in  black). 

"  K N ,  if  you  will  return  to  your  disconsolate  friends  in 

Devonshire  Terrace,  your  absence  in  Ireland  will  be  forgotten  and  for- 
given, and  you  will  be  received  with  open  arms.  Think  of  your  dear 
sister,  Dolly,  and  how  altered  her  appearance  and  character  are  without 
you !  She  is  not  the  same  girl.  Think,  too,  of  the  author  of  your  being, 
and  what  he  must  feel  when  he  sees  your  place  empty  every  day ! 
"  October  10,  1848." 

The  reading  of  Dickens'  works  has  no  doubt  engen- 
dered a  love  for  the  writer  in  thousands  of  hearts.  How 
that  affection  would  have  been  increased  could  his  readers 
have  had  personal-  knowledge  of  the  man,  can  only  be 
known  to  those  who,  like  myself,  had  the  happiness  of  his 
intimate  acquaintance. 


MY   FIRST   SUCCESS.  77 

Of  Dickens'  great  rival,  Thackeray,  I  had  but  slight 
knowledge,  only,  indeed,  sufficient  to  prejudice  me  strongly, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  foolishly,  against  him.  Under  his 
pseudonym  of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsb,  Thackeray  had 
written  a  charming  criticism  of  a  picture  of  mine  in  Fra- 
ser's  Magazine,  and  as  he  had  already  given  sufficient 
proof  in  literary  work  that  he  was  a  giant  among  men,  I 
was  very  curious  to  see  him,  and,  if  possible,  to  make  his 
acquaintance.  Between  forty  and  fifty  years  ago  a  club 
called  "  The  Deanery "  existed  in  Dean  Street,  Soho,  the 
members  being  chiefly  literary  men,  artists,  lawyers,  and 
such  like,  with  a  sprinkling  of  men  of  no  special  mark. 
Among  the  latter  was  a  friend  of  my  own,  who  invited 
me  to  dine  with  him  on  an  evening  when  Thackeray  was 
pretty  sure  to  be  at  the  club.  My  friend  expressed  his 
regret  that  the  man  I  so  much  desired  to  see  was  not  in 
the  dining-room,  but  he  had  little  doubt  of  our  finding 
him  afterwards  in  the  smoking-room,  to  which  we  ad- 
journed later  in  the  evening.  I  may  startle  some  of  my 
acquaintance  by  declaring  that  I  am,  and  always  have 
been,  a  highly  nervous,  retiring,  and  modest  person — in- 
deed, I  often  regret  my  timidity — and  if  I  had  been  more 
impudent  and  self-assertive  I  should  have  been  more  suc- 
cessfuT  in  the  world.  Like  a  wicked  old  lady,  a  friend  of 
Mulready's,  who  assured  him,  when  drawing  very  near 
the  close  of  an  erratic  life,  that  if  she  had  "only  been 
virtuous  it  would  have  been  pounds  and  pounds  in  her 
pocket !"  I  feel  that  though  I  might  not  have  been  more 
virtuous  I  should  have  been  more  prosperous,  if  a  kind  of 
panic,  created  by  a  knowledge  of  my  ova  shortcomings, 
had  not  so  often  made  me  dumb  when  I  ought  to  have 
been  more  self-assertive. 

My  friend  and  I  entered  the  Deanery  smoking-room 
and  found  a  very  convivial  party  ;  all  intimately  ac- 
quainted, seemingly,  listening  to  a  song  from  a  gentle- 
man called  Mahony,  who,  under  the  name  of  Father  Prout, 
had  made  himself  somewhat  celebrated.  By  his  side  sat 
a  big  man,  to  whom  I  was  introduced,  and  I  had  the  honor 
of  a  hand-shake  by  the  great  Thackeray.  I  was  very 
young  at  the  time,  although  I  had  just  been  elected  an 


78  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

associate  of  the  Academy,  and  I  sat  in  a\ve-struck  silence 
listening  to  the  brilliant  talk  of  those  men.  Some  one 
called  on  Thackeray  for  a  song,  and  he  instantly  struck 
up  one  of  his  own  writing,  as  I  was  told.  I  forget  the 
words,  but  I  remember  two  individuals — Gorging  Jack 
and  Guzzling  Jimmy — who  seemed  to  be  the  presiding 
geniuses  of  it.  No  sooner  had  the  applause  accorded  to 
it  subsided,  than  Thackeray  turned  to  me  and  said,  "Now 
then,  Frith,  you  d — d  saturnine  young  Academician,  sing 
us  a  song!" 

I  was  dumb  before  this  address,  and  far  too  confounded 
to  say  anything  in  reply.  Encouraged,  perhaps,  by  my 
proving  myself  such  an  easy  butt,  the  attack  was  renewed 
a  little  later  in  the  evening  :  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Frith, 
you  had  better  go  home  ;  your  aunt  is  sitting  up  for  you 
with  a  big  muffin."  Again  I  was  paralyzed,  and  shortly 
after  I  went  home. 

After  this  I  contented  myself  with  admiration  for  the 
works  of  the  great  author,  without  feeling  any  desire  for 
a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  man.  Of  course, 
I  often  met  Thackeray  afterwards,  but  I  never  gave  him 
an  opportunity  for  renewing  his  playful  attacks.  I  know 
very  well  that  Thackeray  was  much  beloved  by  those  who 
knew  him  intimately,  and  I  have  often  been  abused  by 
some  of  his  friends  (notably  by  dear  Leech)  for  rny  ab- 
surd anger  at  what  was  meant  for  a  joke;  but  I  submit 
that  such  attacks  on  an  inoffensive  stranger  were  very 
poor  jokes,  and  even  after  the  long  lapse  of  time  I  feel 
humiliated  and  pained  in  recalling  them. 

The  very  nature  of  an  autobiography  entails  upon  the 
writer  such  a  constant  use  of  the  first  person  singular  as 
to  make  his  performance  egotistical  in  the  extreme,  and 
though  I  hope,  in  the  course  of  my  narrative,  I  shall  have 
a  good  deal  to  say  of  other  people,  I  must,  perforce,  talk 
much  of  myself  and  my  own  doings. 

To  resume,  then.  I  felt  my  banishment  to  the  Octagon 
Room  (a  detestable  closet,  still  to  be  seen  at  the  National 
Gallery  in  Trafalgar  Square)  so  keenly,  that  a  kind  of  de- 
spair seized  me,  and  I  adopted  the  advice  of  my  friends 
and  started  for  a  trip  up  the  Rhine  with  my  friend  Egg, 


MY   FIRST  SUCCESS.  79 

taking  Antwerp  and  Brussels  en  route  to  Cologne,  pausing 
at  the  former  places,  where  we  expected  to  find  some  of 
the  art-treasures  of  the  world.  Our  anticipations  were 
fully  realized,  but  I  shall  say  little  about  them  in  this 
place,  for  a  second  visit  was  made  to  the  country  of  the 
great  Dutch  and  Flemish  painters  some  years  later  (a  full 
account  of  which  will  be  found  in  the  succeeding  pages 
of  these  reminiscences),  when  I  found  that  several  years' 
study  had  enabled  me  better  to  appreciate  the  powers  of 
great  artists. 

At  Antwerp,  Rubens  is  seen  in  all  his  glory.  A  terri- 
ble sense  of  inferiority  takes  possession  of  all  sensible 
painters  on  seeing  the  works  of  the  greatest  men.  To 
approach  them,  much  less  rival  them,  seems  utterly  hope- 
less. This  depressing  feeling  has  to  be  subdued;  and  then 
a  reverent  study  of  the  methods  and  principles  displayed 
in  immortal  works  will  improve  all  who  study  them  with 
intelligence.  Mere  copying  is  of  little  service,  as  it  is 
generally — to  use  Sir  Joshua's  words — but  "  industrious 
idleness." 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  the  modern  exhi- 
bition in  Paris,  now  called  the  Salon,  took  place  in  the 
Louvre;  the  modern  pictures  being  hung  in  front  of  the 
old  masters.  The  admirable  drawing  and,  in  many  in- 
stances, the  great  beauty  and  careful  finish  of  the  pict- 
ures by  some  of  the  best  French  painters — who  in  those 
days  exhibited  among  their  less  eminent  brethren — in- 
spired me  with  a  determination  to  go  home  and  "do  like- 
wise." On  my  return,  I  began  another  composition  from 
the  tabooed  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  the  subject  being 
"Thornhill  relating  his  London  adventures  to  the  Vicar's 
family,"  and  a  smaller  picture  of  "  Knox  reproving  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots."  The  "  Vicar"  again  took  his  place  upon 
the  line,  the  "Knox"  was  a  little  below  it,  but  in  an  ex- 
cellent position;  so,  in  spite  of  ray  friend's  prediction,  I 
was  again  on  the  line,  and  for  the  last  eight-and -forty 
years  I  have  never  been  off  it.  In  the  same  exhibition 
with  my  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  and  "John  Knox"  was 
another  subject  from  the  "Vicar,"  and  another  "John 
Knox;"  the  former  being  an  exquisite  picture  called  the 


80  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Whistonian  Controversy"  (by  Mulready),  and  the  other, 
"  Knox  Reproving  the  Ladies  of  Queen  Mary's  Court" 
(by  Chalon).  Thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

In  the  following  summer,  but  while  the  exhibition  was 
still  open,  I  was  sketching  in  Stoke  Pogeis  Churchyard. 
This  place,  being  the  supposed  scene  of  Gray's  "  Elegy," 
and  the  burial-place  of  the  poet,  is  much  frequented  by 
tourists;  and  one  day  when  I  was  far  advanced  with  an 
oil-sketch  of  the  ivy-covered  church,  a  gentleman  and 
some  ladies,  after  admiring  the  church,  marched  across 
the  graves  and  began  to  admire  my  representation  of  it. 
The  gentleman,  who  was  what  is  called  a  "  languid  swell," 
with  Dundreary  whiskers  and  a  fashionable  drawl,  thus 
addressed  me: 

"  How  very  charming  !  Look,"  he  said  to  his  lady 
friends,  "how  delightfully  the  ivy  is  touched  in  !"  And 
then,  again  addressing  himself  to  me,  he  said :  "  I  feel 
sure  an  artist  who  paints  so  well  must  be  an  exhibitor  at 
the  Royal  Academy.  May  I  ask  if  I  am  right  ?" 

"  Quite  right,"  said  I. 

Then  he  said,  in  tones  of  affected  apology: 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  exhibit  this  year  in  the  exhibition 
now  open  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  two  pictures  in  the  exhibition." 

"  Then  I  must  have  seen  them,  of  course  ;  would  you 
mind  naming  the  subjects  ?" 

"  Well,  one  is  taken  from  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  and 
the  other — "  but  before  I  could  say  another  word  I  was 
stopped  by  a  loud  exclamation  of  delight  at  his  having 
the  honor  of  speaking  to  the  painter  of  the  "Whistonian 
Controversy." 

"  You  remember  that  splendid  work,  dear  Miss  Some- 
thing-or-other — the  obstinacy  of  the  Vicar's  opponent  so 
wonderfully  done,"  etc.,  etc. 

I  allowed  him  to  exhaust  himself  with  admiration,  and 
then  quietly  told  him  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  that 
the  "  Whistonian  Controversy"  was  by  Mulready,  R.A. 

"  But  I  understood  you  to  say  that  your  picture  is  from 
the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ?' " 

"  So  it  is,  but  from  quite  another  part  of  the  book.    My 


MY   FIRST  SUCCESS.  81 

picture  represents  Squire  Thornhill  relating  his  town  ad- 
ventures to  the  Vicar's  family." 

"  Ha !  oh — yes — dear  me — -well  now,  I  can't  remember 
seeing  that.  Did  you  see  what  this  gentleman  describes, 
Miss  So-and-so?" 

"  No ;  we  must  have  missed  it  somehow." 

"  And  the  second  picture,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  you 
were  so  kind  as  to — er?" 

"  The  second,"  said  I,  "  was  John  Knox  and — " 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  ladies,  "  we  saw  that,  and 
thought  it  so  beautiful !" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  gentleman,  apparently  quite  relieved 
and  delighted  to  find  that  he  had  seen  one  of  my  works 
at  any  rate.  "  It  is,  indeed,  a  charming  picture.  You 
remember,"  turning  to  his  friends,  "  how  lovely  we  thought 
the  dancing  ladies,  contrasting  so  admirably  with  the  im- 
posing figure  of  Knox.  Sir,  I  must  congratulate  you  on 
producing  so  great  a  work." 

"  I  am  really  sorry,"  said  I,  "but  you  are  wrong  again; 
the  'Knox'  you  speak  of  is  painted  by  Chalon,  R.A." 
Again  I  described  my  own  picture,  and  again  the  party 
had  to  confess  that  by  some  strange  mischance  they  had 
overlooked  my  second  contribution  to  the  exhibition  as 
completely  as  they  had  the  first. 

The  party  took  their  leave  of  me,  determined — at  least, 
so  they  said — to  go  again  to  Trafalgar  Square  on  purpose 
to  see  works  which  they  really  could  not  forgive  them- 
selves for  having  so  stupidly  missed. 
4* 


CHAPTER  X. 

ELECTED    AN    ASSOCIATE. 

A  GREAT  change  has  taken  place  since  the  year  1844, 
when  such  men  as  Sheepshanks,  Vernon,  Miller,  Gibbons, 
and  others  were  collecting  works  of  modern  art,  influenced 
by  the  love  of  it,  and  not  by  the  notion  of  investment  so 
common  in  the  last  few  years.  Prominent  among  the 
former  class  of  purchasers  was  Mr.  Gibbons,  a  Birming- 
ham banker,  whose  acquaintance  I  made  through  the  ex- 
hibition of  two  pictures  at  the  annual  exhibition  in  that 
town.  On  finding  that  both  were  sold,  Mr.  Gibbons  com- 
missioned me  to  paint  him  some  subject  from  Sterne  or 
Goldsmith,  and  I  suggested  for  illustration  the  well-known 
verse  in  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  which  describes  the  vil- 
lage parson  leaving  his  church,  when 

"  Children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile." 

The  scene  is  in  the  churchyard,  and  many  peasants  and 
their  wives  crowd  round  the  clergyman,  making  a  very 
elaborate  composition.  The  price  of  the  picture  was  fixed 
at  two  hundred  pounds,  a  larger  sum  than  I  had  received 
for  any  picture  at  that  time.  Mr.  Gibbons  was  an  elderly 
man  in  delicate  health,  with  a  great  love  of  art,  and  very 
considerable  knowledge  of  it;  in  fact,  a  polished,  well- 
educated  gentleman.  He  came  to  live  in  London,  and 
watched  the  progress  of  the  "  Village  Pastor  "  with  very 
intelligent  and,  to  me,  most  agreeable  interest.  If  he  dis- 
approved of  any  detail  he  would  "  hint  the  fault  and  hesi- 
tate dislike,"  always  in  the  kindest  spirit,  and  I  generally 
found  his  criticism  serviceable. 

The  work  advanced  rapidly  and  I  thought  successfully, 
and  in  due  time  made  its  appearance  in  Trafalgar  Square, 
where  it  was  among  the  fortunate  "  liners." 


ELECTED   AN   ASSOCIATE.  83 

I  had  not  long  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  English  landscape-painters,  and  meet- 
ing him  in  the  exhibition,  he  advised  me  to  put  my  name 
down  for  the  degree  of  associate,  an  honor  already  in  his 
own  possession.  I  well  remember  what  wild  folly  the 
idea  seemed  to  me,  and  said: 

"You  are  surely  joking  ;  what  chance  have  I  of  being 
made  an  associate  ?" 

"  Not  any,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  would  advise  you  to  put 
down  your  name,  so  as  to  familiarize  the  Royal  Academi- 
cians with  it." 

"No,  no!"  said  I;  "it's  too  absurd." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  do  it  for  you,"  said  Creswick,  and 
it  was  well  for  me  he  did. 

The  "  Village  Pastor  "  made  a  favorable  impression  on 
the  public  generally,  and  many  were  the  compliments  I 
received  from  the  source  most  valued,  namely,  my  brother 
artists. 

When  an  election  takes  place  of  either  associate  or 
academican,  great  is  the  excitement  among  the  aspirants  ; 
and  rare,  indeed,  is  it  that  the  day  of  election  is  unknown 
to  any  of  those  whose  names  are  on  the  list  from  which 
the  choice  is  to  be  made.  I  can  most  truly  say  I  was  one 
of  the  ignorant,  for  though  Creswick  had  said  he  would 
put  down  my  name,  I  never  gave  the  matter  another 
thought,  so  impossible  did  it  seem  to  me  that  a  very 
young  man— who  was  but  just  before  the  public,  not  hav- 
ing exhibited  more  than  two  or  three  pictures  that  had  at- 
tracted any  notice — should  have  the  remotest  chance  of 
success  in  the  election  for  which  I  thought  there  must  be 
many  more  worthy  candidates. 

My  profound  astonishment,  therefore,  may  be  imagined 
when  one  of  the  Academy  porters,  my  old  friend  William- 
son, called  to  tell  me  that  I  was  made  what  he  called  "  a 
A.R.A."  It  could  not  be — it  was  not  to  be  believed. 

"  If  this  is  a  joke,  Williamson,"  said  I,  feeling  myself 
turn  very  pale,  "  it  is  not  a  kind  one." 

"  Joke,  sir!  Lord  bless  you,  you  was  elected  all  right 
night  before  last.  I  thought  you  must  have  heerd  on  it." 

I  think  the  porter  had  my  diploma — signed  by  Turner, 


84  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

pro  president,  with  Howard's  name  as  secretary  attached 
to  it — which  he  handed  to  me  from  a  portfolio,  but  I  am 
not  certain  of  that  particular ;  but  what  I  am  quite  sure 
of  is,  that  in  a  few  hours  it  was  in  my  possession,  making 
"  assurance  doubly  sure." 

It  was  a  custom  at  that  time  for  all  newly-elected  mem- 
bers to  call  upon  the  academicians  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  those  august  individuals,  and  to  respectfully  thank 
them  for  what  was,  in  many  instances,  imaginary  support. 
This  ceremony  has  not  fallen  into  complete  desuetude; 
but  its  observance  has  occasionally  led  to  embarrassment, 
and  much  discomfort,  to  the  newly-fledged  associate.  It 
could  not  be  pleasant,  for  instance,  for  a  painter  of  great 
ability,  whose  pictures  had  been  the  "  observed  of  all  ob- 
servers "  for  some  years,  to  be  received  by  an  old  acade- 
mician in  the  following  fashion  :  "  Yes,  there  was  an 
election  last  night  I  know,  but  I  couldn't  go;  my  doctor 
won't  let  me  go  out  at  night.  Ah!  things  are  so  altered; 
my  old  friends  are  all  gone.  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  con- 
gratulate you.  You  are  an  architect,  ain't  you  ?" 

For  myself,  I  had  little  to  complain  of;  I  had  heard  of 
the  danger  of  "  thanking  people  for  assistance  that  might 
not  have  been  afforded,"  and  I  therefore  confined  myself 
to  a  few  platitudes  about  "being  unworthy  of  the  honor, 
but  determined  to  prove  my  devotion  to  the  interests  of 
art  and  the  Academy,"  etc.  One  candid  old  gentleman, 
who  told  me  he  had  known  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  imme- 
diately denied  all  complicity  in  my  election.  "Not,  my 
dear  young  man,  that  you  may  not  deserve  your  good- 
fortune — I  cannot  say,  for  I  have  never  seen  any  of  your 
work."  Many  of  the  Forty  were  either  from  home,  or  pre- 
tended to  be;  but  I  caught  Mr.  H.  W.  Pickersgill,  the  well- 
known  and  accomplished  portrait-painter  of  that  period, 
and  who  then  lived  in  Soho  Square.  He  received  me  very 
kindly,  and  in  the  middle  of  an  eloquent  exhortation  as  to 
my  future  conduct,  Mrs.  Pickersgill  entered  the  room.  She 
was  a  very  handsome  old  lady,  with  a  ravishing  smile 
and  beautiful  teeth — so  wonderfully  beautiful  as  to  raise 
doubts  as  to  their  origin.  I  was  instantly  introduced  to 
her. 


ELECTED   AN   ASSOCIATE.  85 

"  This  young  gentleman,  my  dear,  is  Mr.  Frith." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Pickersgill. 

"  Mr.  Frith,  ray  dear,  was  elected  an  associate  of  the 
Royal  Academy  the  other  evening." 

"  TPe//,"  replied  the  lady,  "  he  is  no  better  for  that." 

My  election  found  me  at  work  upon  two  pictures  :  one 
being  an  illustration  of  Moliere's  "  Bourgeois  Gentil- 
homme,"  a  commission  from  Mr.  Gibbons;  the  other  a 
scene  from  Gray's  "Elegy,"  which  was  also  a  commission 
from  Mr.  Farrer,  a  Avell-known  picture-dealer  and  connois- 
seur of  that  day.  I  think  neither  of  these  pictures  fulfilled 
the  expectations  raised  by  the  "  Village  Pastor,"  either  in 
my  friends  or  myself;  and  I  felt  the  imperative  necessity 
of  immediately  embarking  on  some  subject  of  such  im- 
portance as  should  justify  my  election,  by  the  manner  in 
which  I  should  execute  the  work. 

In  the  meantime  I  attended  my  first  banquet  at  the 
Royal  Academy.  The  great  dinner  that  takes  place  be- 
fore the  opening  of  the  exhibition  is  generally  considered 
the  public  dinner  of  the  year,  and  when  it  is  understood 
that  those  eligible  to  take  part  in  that  remarkable  gather- 
ing must  either  be  persons  of  exalted  rank,  or  great  as 
statesmen,  military  or  naval  heroes,  ecclesiastical  or  legal 
dignitaries,  or  eminent  professors  of  science  or  literature 
or  (if  last,  by  no  means  least)  well-known  patrons  of  art, 
it  is  evident  that  an  assemblage  almost  unique  must  be 
the  result. 

It  has  been  my  good-fortune  to  assist  at  a  great  many 
Academy  banquets,  but  the  first  dwells  still  vividly  in  my 
memory.  Sir  Martin  Shoe,  the  then  president,  took  the 
chair ;  with  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  on  his  left, 
some  royal  prince  or  duke  on  his  right.  The  tables  were 
filled  with  distinguished  persons,  whose  names  were,  of 
course,  familiar  to  me,  and  whose  personal  appearance  I 
was  curious  to  become  acquainted  with,  for  in  those  days 
photography  did  not  make  known  to  us,  as  it  does  now, 
the  faces  and  figures  of  nearly  every  celebrity.  The  as- 
sembling of  the  guests  among  the  pictures  before  the  din- 
ner was  therefore  watched  with  intense  interest. 

On  this  occasion  political  animosity  seemed  to  sleep.    I 


86  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

saw  the  prime-minister  in  friendly  talk  with  the  leader  of 
the  opposition;  well-known  political  antagonists  of  less 
prominence  chatted  together.  The  Duke  of  Wellington, 
catalogue  in  hand,  was  examining  a  picture,  when  the 
Marquis  of  Anglesey,  lame  from  the  loss  of  his  leg  at 
Waterloo,  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  Black -silk 
breeches  were  occasionally  worn  at  that  time,  and  Sir 
Martin  Archer  Shee,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  several  others 
adopted  the  style  of  dress  then  fast  dying  out,  but  one 
far  more  becoming  than  the  trouser  fashion  that  succeed- 
ed it. 

As  the  youngest  member,  I  was  placed  very  properly  in 
the  worst  position  at  the  dinner-table,  close  to  the  door, 
through  which  a  cruel  draught  played  ever  and  anon  upon 
me.  But  little  did  I  think  of  such  a  drawback  when,  after 
the  toast  of  "  The  Army  and  Navy,"  the  great  duke  rose 
to  reply.  I  can  see  him  now,  the  gray  head  bent,  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  thunder  of  applause  that  greeted 
him,  the  broad  blue  ribbon  of  the  Garter  across  the  white 
waistcoat,  and  then  the  thin,  piping  voice  in  which,  in  a 
few  well-chosen  words,  he  replied  to  the  toast.  Other 
speakers  there  were,  of  course,  more  to  the  manner  born; 
but  none  interested  me  like  the  "  Prince  of  Waterloo." 

The  banquet  took  place  in  the  large  room  of  the  pres- 
ent National  Gallery — nearest  to  St.  Martin's  Church — at 
that  time  in  possession  of  the  Royal  Academy.  The  prin- 
cipal table,  from  which  branch  tables  were  projected,  was 
placed  round  the  room,  leaving  space  between  it  and  the 
pictures  for  the  service  of  the  dinner,  and  for  the  guests — 
if  they  were  so  minded — to  examine  the  pictures.  I  be- 
lieve it  is  pretty  well  known  that  the  great  duke  had  no 
sympathy  with  poetry  or  poets,  and  not  unfrequently  ex- 
pressed his  contempt  for  both.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
quotations  from  the  famous  manuscript  poem,  called  the 
"  Fallacies  of  Hope "  (a  work  presumed  to  be  the  off- 
spring of  Turner's  muse,  and  quotations  from  which  were 
appended  to  every  picture  he  exhibited),  puzzled  the  duke, 
as  they  did  everybody  else.  An  academician,  after  try- 
ing in  vain  to  comprehend  one  of  them,  declared  it  was  all 
"fallacy  and  no  hope."  It  was  my  lot  to  hear  another 


ELECTED   AN    ASSOCIATE.  87 

comment,  from  no  less  a  person  than  the  duke  himself. 
I  was  walking  round  the  tables,  reading  the  names  of  the 
intended  diners,  when  I  suddenly  came  upon  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  who  was  standing  in  such  a  position  between 
the  table  and  the  pictures  as  to  leave  no  space  for  me  to 
pass  behind  him,  and  I  refrained  from  passing  in  front. 

The  picture  he  was  studying  was  called  "  Rain,  Steam, 
and  Speed,"  a  rather  eccentric  representation  of  a  train  in 
full  speed  on  the  Great  Western  Railway.  Unperceived, 
I  watched  the  duke's  puzzled  expression  as  he  read  the 
quotation  from  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope."  He  then  looked 
steadily  at  the  picture,  and  with  a  muttered  "Ah!  poetry!" 
walked  on. 

Dickens,  Thackeray,  Macready,  and  Rogers  were  guests 
upon  the  occasion  of  my  first  appearance  at  the  Academy 
banquet.  I  saw  Rogers  descend  the  stairs  leaning  on 
Dickens'  arm,  a  support  much  needed  for  a  man  who  was 
"so  old,"  as  Maclise  said,  "that  Death  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  him." 

It  was  on  that  occasion  also,  I  think,  that  Thackeray,  on 
returning  thanks  for  literature,  spoke  of  his  own  early  de- 
sire to  be  a  painter,  and  his  disappointment  when,  on  taking 
some  sketches  to  Dickens  in  the  hope  of  being  employed 
to  illustrate  one  of  his  books,  the  great  novelist  "  declined 
his  contributions  with  thanks." 

There  were  some  pictures  in  the  exhibition  illustrating 
"  Dombey  and  Son;"  I  told  Dickens  of  them.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "I  know  there  are;  just  go  and  see  them,  and  tell 
me  what  they  are  like.  I  don't  like  to  be  caught  looking 
at  them  myself." 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE    "OLD    ENGLISH   MERBY-MAKING." 

THOUGH  my  Moliere  picture  was  not  a  sufficient  im- 
provement upon  my  previous  work  to  add  anything  to  my 
reputation,  it  took  the  fancy  of  an  eccentric  gentleman 
who  successfully  tempted  Mr.  Gibbons — its  first  purchaser 
— to  part  with  it,  by  offering  him  just  three  times  the 
sum  he  had  paid  for  it.  I  must  add  that,  out  of  this 
tempting  profit,  Mr.  Gibbons  made  me  a  present  of  fifty 
guineas. 

The  other  and  still  more  inferior  picture  met  with  a 
somewhat  similar  success,  without  any  participation  in  the 
profit  by  me.  In  the  hope  that  the  future  would  prove 
that  I  had  only  receded  in  order  to  make  a  longer  jump,  I 
immediately  embarked  on  a  large  composition  of  an  "  Eng- 
lish Village  Festival" — eventually  christened  "An  Old 
English  Merry-making,"  now  pretty  well  known  through 
a  very  beautiful  engraving  of  it,  executed  by  William 
Holl.  A  large  oak-tree  occupies  the  centre  of  the  picture; 
lovers  and  dancers  amuse  themselves  in  its  "  checkered 
shade."  An  old  man  is  dragged  by  his  children  towards 
the  dancers,  in  spite  of  his  evident  protest  "  that  his  danc- 
ing-days are  over."  Gypsy  fortune-tellers  and  peasantry 
playing  bowls  or  drinking  complete  the  scene.  I  put  no 
trust  in  fancy  for  the  smallest  detail  of  the  picture.  The 
oak-tree  is  a  portrait  of  a  patriarch  of  Windsor  Forest, 
whom  I  recognized  the  other  day  unchanged  in  the  slight- 
est degree;  could  the  tree  have  seen  me,  I  am  sure  he 
would  not  have  known  me  again.  It  may  be  as  justly 
said  of  old  oaks  as  Wilkie's  monk  said  of  the  pictorial 
treasures  of  his  monastery,  "  They  are  the  substance,  and 
we  are  the  shadows."  The  cottages  are  studies  from  nat- 
ure, and  every  figure  in  the  picture  is  more  or  less  a  por- 


THE  "OLD  ENGLISH   MEBBY-MAKING."  89 

trait  of  the  model  who  sat  for  it.  The  old  woman  sitting 
at  the  tea-table  by  the  cottage-door  was  a  Mrs.  King,  who 
followed  the  respectable  calling  of  a  washerwoman.  She 
was  "no  scholar,"  and  hearing  me  repeat  some  lines  one 
day  when  she  was  sitting,  she  said, 

"Them's  beautiful  words." 

"I  should  rather  think  they  are;  why,  they  are  Shake- 
speare's." Then,  seeing  that  she  did  not  seem  much  wiser 
by  the  information,  I  said,  "You  know  who  Shakespeare 
was,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  " — then,  after  a  pause — "  he  was  something  in 
your  line,  wasn't  he  ?" 

With  the  exception  of  the  old  gypsy  who  is  telling  the 
fortune  of  a  young  person  on  the  left  of  the  composition, 
I  had  not  much  difficulty  in  finding  appropriate  models. 
I  used  my  wife's  sisters  and  some  friends  rather  remorse- 
lessly, but,  I  think,  with  good  effect. 

I  found  an  old  gypsy  in  the  street,  and  stopped  her. 
She  had  something  to  sell — I  forget  what — and  I  offered 
to  be  a  purchaser,  but  she  must  deliver  the  goods  at  my 
house.  She  came,  accompanied  by  a  small  gypsy  grand- 
daughter. The  articles  were  chosen  and  paid  for. 

"Now,  good  lady  and  gentleman,  let  the  old  gypsy  tell 
your  fortunes." 

"  After  a  while,"  said  I,  and  I  then  proceeded  to  disclose 
my  purpose.  The  old  woman  thought  I  must  be  joking. 
Who  could  want  a  likeness  of  her  ?  If  it  had  been  "  a 
long  time  back"  it  would  have  been  different;  she  wasn't 
bad-looking  then,  and  so  on.  "  Well,"  said  I,  "  come  into 
my  studio,  and  I  will  explain  matters  to  you."  In  one 
corner  of  the  painting-room  stood  a  full  suit  of  armor — 
helmet,  plume,  and  lance.  The  lay-figure,  also,  was  in  full 
evidence,  unfortunately.  "Here  you  are — look!"  said  I, 
showing  her  the  picture;  "this  is  a  gypsy  telling  the  fort- 
une of  this  young  maiden;  and  what  I  want  is —  Hear- 
ing a  rustling  behind  me,  I  turned  round,  and  saw  the  old 
woman  in  full  retreat  towards  the  door,  walking  back- 
wards as  if  in  the  presence  of  royalty,  her  eyes  fixed  with 
a  terrified  stare  on  the  man  in  armor.  "  W'hat's  the  mat- 
ter?" said  I.  "Don't  be  foolish ;  that  is  not  a  man,  it's 


90  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

only  a  suit  of  armor;  there's  nothing  to  be  frightened 
at." 

At  that  moment  she  bumped  against  the  door,  turned 
and  opened  it,  and  fled  up  the  street,  the  little  girl  (her 
granddaughter)  after  her,  as  terrified  as  herself.  Fortu- 
nately her  address  had  been  secured,  and  after  many  vis- 
its, munificent  offers  of  reward,  and  incredible  difficulty, 
she  was  induced  to  sit,  but  only  on  the  understanding  that 
"the  steel  man  and  the  other  horrid  thing"  were  banished 
from  the  studio. 

Having  had  very  little  practice  in  landscape-painting,  I 
found  great  difficulty  in  the  background  of  the  picture. 
The  large  tree  I  managed  pretty  well,  having  made  a 
careful  study  of  it;  but  the  bits  of  distance  and  the  grass 
and  sky  bothered  me  terribly.  Ores  wick,  who  had  be- 
come my  intimate  friend — and  who  was  good-nature  per- 
sonified— offered  to  mend  the  distance  for  me,  and  the  re- 
sult of  his  doing  so  was  very  satisfactory. 

When  the  picture  was  shown  (according  to  a  custom 
common  to  the  present  time — witness  "Show  Sunday") 
to  many  of  my  friends  and  others  whom  I  scarcely  knew, 
Mr.  Creswick  came  among  the  rest,  and  went  close  to  the 
picture  to  see  how  his  work  had  prospered,  when  a  man 
near  him  said,  sotto  voce,  pointing  to  Creswick's  own  touch- 
es, "  What  a  pity  it  is,  Mr.  Creswick,  that  these  figure- 
painters  don't  study  landscape  more!  Look  how  bad 
that  is!" 

Though  my  own  ignorance  of  architecture,  of  animal 
life,  and  of  landscape  has  on  several  occasions  forced  me 
to  seek  the  assistance  of  my  friends,  I  have  always  done 
so  with  great  regret  and  a  sense  of  humiliation;  and  I 
would  strongly  advise  any  youngster  who  may  read  this 
to  provide  himself  in  early  life  with  the  knowledge  which 
I  neglected  to  obtain.  And  I  hope  that  supposititious  per- 
sonage will,  at  the  same  time,  bear  in  mind  that  he  must 
be  as  determined  as  I  was  to  do  nothing  from  fancy,  but 
"  seek  until  he  finds  "  the  object,  dead  or  living,  required 
for  his  work.  I  have  never  forgotten  a  conversation  be- 
tween two  students  who  were  drawing  behind  me  in  the 
Antique  School  of  the  Academy.  Said  one  to  the  other, 


THE  "  OLD    ENGLISH    MERBY-MAKIXG."  91 

"  Who  did  you  get  to  sit  for  Nell  Gwynne  in  your  pict- 
ure of  Charles  II.  and  that  lady  ?" 

"Miss  Truman,"  said  his  friend.  "You  know  her? 
Sits  in  the  Life.  A  doosid  good  model." 

"Yes,  I  know  her,"  said  the  questioner.  "Thought 
you'd  had  her.  More  like  her  than  Nell  Gwynne,  ain't  it  ? 
And  the  king — who  sat  for  him  ?" 

"  Oh,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  rather  conceited  tone,  "  I  did 
him  from  nothing." 

"And  you've  made  him  very  like,"  said  the  candid 
friend. 

The  "Old  English  Merry-making"  was  hung  in  one  of 
the  angles  of  the  middle  room  in  Trafalgar  Square,  and 
was  very  successful.  Previous  to  its  going  to  the  exhibi- 
tion it  was  sold  to  a  picture-dealer  for  three  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds;  since  then  it  has  changed  hands  many  times, 
and  is  now  an  heirloom  in  a  large  collection  in  the  north. 
If  I  were  to  repeat  some  of  the  flattering  things  that  were 
said  of  my  work  I  should  lay  myself  open  to  the  charge  of 
a  performance  on  my  own  trumpet — a  proceeding  very 
foreign  to  my  disposition — and  if  I  mention  one  instance 
of  generous  praise  it  is  more  for  the  purpose  of  opposing 
a  common  error  into  which  those  who  knew  little  or  noth- 
ing of  the  great  Turner  were  in  the  habit  of  falling.  I 
have  heard  him  described  as  surly,  miserly,  and  ill-nat- 
ured; as  a  man  who  never  said  an  encouraging  word  to 
young  men,  and  who  was  always  a  severe  critic.  I  know 
nothing  of  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the  miserly  charge; 
but  I  do  know  that  Turner's  treatment  of  young  men  and 
his  kindness  in  expressing  his  opinion  of  all  contemporary 
work  were  in  exact  opposition  to  the  general  notion  of  his 
disposition.  When  the  "Merry-making"  was  being  ex- 
hibited I  was  one  of  a  large  party  at  dinner  at  Vice-chan- 
cellor Sir  James  Wigram's.  All  present  were  older  and 
superior  to  myself,  and  I  was  startled  out  of  my  usual 
silence  by  Lee,  R.A.,  who  called  to  me  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  asking  if  I  knew  what  Turner  had  said  of  my 
picture. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  I,  feeling  myself  turn  red  and  pale  alter- 
nately. 


92  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"He  says  it  is  beautifully  drawn,  well  composed,  and 
well  colored." 

It  is  perfectly  well  known  that  the  severest  criticism 
Turner  was  ever  heard  to  make  was  upon  a  landscape  of  a 
brother  academician  whose  works  sometimes  showed  signs 
of  weakness.  Turner  joined  a  group  who  were  discussing 
a  certain  picture's  shortcomings,  and,  after  hearing  much 
unpleasant  remark,  from  which  he  dissented,  he  was  forced 
to  confess  that  a  very  bad  passage  in  the  picture,  to  which 
malcontents  drew  his  attention,  "was  a  poor  bit." 

If  I  write  anything  in  these  pages  that  I  cannot  vouch 
for  I  always  warn  my  readers;  and  I  am  not  certain  wheth- 
er Turner  said  to  the  gentleman  who  is  usually  called  the 
great  art  critic,  "My  dear  sir,  if  you  only  knew  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  paint  even  a  decent  picture,  you  would  not  say 
the  severe  things  you  do  of  those  who/«27."  But  this  was 
attributed  to  him. 

Another  story  of  the  great  art  critic  is  to  the  following 
effect:  In  the  exercise  of  his  high  calling,  friendship  for  a 
painter  was  not  permitted  to  bias  the  critic's  judgment  of 
his  pictures;  and  though  David  Roberts,  R.A.,  was  the 
intimate  personal  friend  of  the  critic,  his  works  found  so 
little  favor  with  the  brilliant  writer  that,  in  one  of  the  an- 
nual notices  of  the  exhibition,  they  received  a  very  savage 
castigation.  Feeling,  perhaps,  that  Roberts  might  find  it 
difficult  to  reconcile  an  attempt  to  do  him  a  serious  injury 
with  the  usual  interpretation  of  the  term  friendship,  the 
critic  wrote  a  private  note  to  the  artist,  explaining  his  ac- 
tion on  the  hypothesis  of  a  self-imposed  duty  to  the  public, 
and  concluded  his  note  by  the  expression  of  a  hope  that 
severe  criticism  would  not  interfere  with  the  sincere  feel- 
ing of  friendship  which  the  writer  hoped  would  always 
exist,  etc.  To  this  Roberts  replied,  that  the  first  time  he 
met  the  critic  he  would  give  him  a  sound  thrashing  •  and 
he  ventured  to  "  hope  that  a  broken  head  would  not  inter- 
fere with  the  sincere  feeling  of  friendship  which  he  hoped 
would  ever  exist,"  etc. 

When  Turner  overpraised  my  picture  I  had  never  spoken 
to  him,  and  had  seen  him  only  on  the  varnishing-days  at 
the  Academy.  At  that  time  they  extended  generally  to 


TUB   "OLD   ENGLISH    MEBRY-MAKING."  93 

nearly  a  week,  luncheon  being  served  daily  in  the  council- 
room.  Upon  my  first  attending  those  luncheons  they  were 
but  slightly  inferior  in  interest  to  the  banquet  to  me,  for  I 
saw  gathered  round  the  table  the  greatest  artists  of  the 
country,  venerable  figures  most  of  them;  in  my  eyes  an 
assembly  of  gods.  To  listen  to  the  talk  of  such  men,  to 
smile  at  their  jokes,  though  never  to  presume  to  join  in 
their  conversation,  was  happiness  enough  for  me.  I  can't 
say  I  find  associates  so  modest  in  these  days;  no  doubt 
they  have  less  reason  for  diffidence  than  I.  As  each,  to 
me,  strange  face  joined  the  table,  Creswick,  or  Edwin 
Landseer — who  had  introduced  himself  to  me — told  me 
the  name  of  its  owner,  and  in  this  way  I  made  my  first 
acquaintance  with  the  outward  and  visible  forms  of  the 
academicians. 

On  one  occasion  the  luncheon  was  half  over,  when  a 
new-comer  arrived  in  a  condition  of  considerable  excite- 
ment. 

"  Why,  Reinagle,"  said  Turner,  as  the  late  arrival  pre- 
pared to  take  a  seat  by  the  great  landscape-painter, 
"  where  have  you  been  ?  You  were  not  in  the  rooms  this 
morning." 

"  Heen,  sir  ?"  said  Reinagle  (who  was  what  is  vulgarly 
called  "  half-cracked  ") ;  "  I  have  been  in  the  City.  I  have 
invented  a  railway  to  go  up  and  down  Cheapside.  Omni- 
buses will  be  done  away  with.  I  shall  make  millions,  and" 
— looking  round  the  table — "  I  will  give  you  all  commis- 
sions." Thou,  looking  aside  at  Turner,  who  sat  next  to 
him,  "And  I  will  give  you  a  commission  if  you  will  tell 
me  which  way  to  hang  the  picture  up  when  I  get  it." 

"You  may  hang  it  just  as  you  please,"  said  Turner,  "if 
you  only  pay  for  it." 

Turner's  extraordinary  knowledge  made  him  an  admira- 
ble critic,  though,  as  I  said  before,  never  a  severe  or  un- 
kind one;  and  he  was  always  ready  to  share  his  knowl- 
edge with  those  who  could  profit  by  it.  After  he  had 
said  to  me  more  than  once,  "  Now,  young  gentleman,  a 
glass  of  brown  sherry  " — people  took  wine  with  one  an- 
other in  those  days — I  ventured  upon  enough  familiarity 
to  ask  him  to  look  at  my  pictures,  and  many  a  time  I  have 


94  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

benefited  by  his  wonderful  knowledge  of  light  and  shade; 
and  though  I  confess  the  drawing  of  the  figures  in  his  pict- 
ures is  often  funny  enough,  he  was  quick  to  see  and  point 
out  errors  in  the  action  and  drawing  of  mine,  and  more 
than  once  he  has  taken  his  brush  and  corrected  a  piece  of 
foreshortening  that  had  mastered  me. 

Turner  was,  without  doubt,  the  greatest  landscape- 
painter  that  ever  lived ;  but  so  mysterious  were  some  of 
his  last  productions,  so  utterly  unlike  nature,  to  my  eyes, 
that  I  should  almost  be  inclined  to  agree  with  Reinagle, 
that  they  would  look  as  well  the  wrong  way  up  as  the 
right  way.  Strange  as  it  may  sound,  it  is  absolutely  true 
that  I  have  heard  Turner  ridicule  some  of  his  own  later 
works  quite  as  skilfully  as  the  newspapers  did.  For  ex- 
ample, at  a  dinner  when  I  was  present,  a  salad  was  offered 
to  Turner,  who  called  the  attention  of  his  neighbor  at  the 
table  (Jones  Lloyd,  afterwards  Lord  Overstone)  to  it  in 
the  following  words  :  "Nice  cool  green  that  lettuce,  isn't 
it?  and  the  beetroot  pretty  red — not  quite  strong  enough  ; 
and  the  mixture,  delicate  tint  of  yellow  that.  Add  some 
mustard,  and  then  you  have  one  of  my  pictures."  It  was, 
and  always  will  be,  a  puzzle  to  me  how  a  man  whose  ear- 
lier works  are  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  all  who  see 
them,  could  have  reconciled  himself  to  the  production  of 
beautiful  phantasmagoria,  representing  nothing  in  the 
"heavens  above,  or  on  the  earth  beneath."  And  what  is 
still  more  wonderful  is  that  people  can  be  found  to  admire 
and  buy  them  at  such  enormous  prices. 

An  erroneous  notion  prevailed  that  Turner  occasionally 
had  painted  the  whole  of  some  of  his  pictures  during  var- 
nishing-days. To  those  who  know  anything  of  the  time 
required  to  produce  a  picture  the  idea  is  absurd  ;  but  I 
have  seen  great  effects  in  the  way  of  change  and  comple- 
tion produced  by  Turner  in  a  very  short  time,  and  that, 
sometimes,  to  the  injury  of  neighboring  works,  as  the  fol- 
lowing anecdote  will  prove :  In  one  of  the  angles  of  the 
middle  room  there  hung,  in  one  of  the  exhibitions,  a  long, 
narrow,  delicately-colored  picture  by  David  Roberts — "A 
View  of  Edinburgh ;"  and  next  to  it,  in  immediate  juxta- 
position, was  a  picture  which  Turner  called  "  Masaniello 


THE    "OLD    ENGLISU    MEBRY-MAKIXG."  95 

and  the  Fisherman's  Ring,"  with  the  inevitable  quotation 
from  the  "  Fallacies  of  Hope."  When  first  placed  on  the 
wall,  Masaniello's  queer  figure  was  relieved  by  a  pale  gray 
sky,  the  whole  effect  being  almost  as  gray  and  quiet  as 
Roberts'  picture.  Turner  was  a  very  short  man,  with  a 
large  head,  and  a  face  usually  much  muffled  "  to  protect 
it  from  the  draughts"  for  which  the  rooms  were  cele- 
brated. Both  he  and  Roberts  stood  upon  boxes,  and 
worked  silently  at  their  respective  pictures.  I  found  my- 
self close  to  them,  painting  some  figures  into  a  landscape 
by  Ores  wick.  I  watched  my  neighbors  from  time  to  time, 
and  if  I  could  discover  no  great  change  in  the  aspect  of 
"  Edinburgh,"  there  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  "  Masa- 
niello  "  was  rapidly  undergoing  a  treatment  which  was  very 
damaging  to  its  neighbor  without  a  compensating  improve- 
ment to  itself.  The  gray  sky  had  become  an  intense  blue, 
and  was  every  instant  becoming  so  blue  that  even  Italy 
could  scarcely  be  credited  with  it.  Roberts  moved  un- 
easily on  his  box-stool.  Then,  with  a  sidelong  look  at 
Turner's  picture,  he  said,  in  the  broadest  Scotch, 

"  You  are  making  that  varra  blue." 

Turner  said  nothing,  but  added  more  and  more  ultra- 
marine. This  was  too  much. 

"I'll  just  tell  ye  what  it  is,  Turner,  you're  just  playing 
the  deevil  with  my  picture,  with  that  sky — ye  never  saw 
such  a  sky  as  that !" 

Turner  moved  his  muffler  on  one  side,  looked  down  at 
Roberts  and  said, 

"  You  attend  to  your  business  and  leave  me  to  attend 
to  mine." 

And  to  this  hour  "Masaniello"  remains — now  in  the 
cellars  of  the  National  Gallery — with  the  bluest  sky  ever 
seen  in  a  picture,  and  never  seen  out  of  one. 

I  may  add  another  anecdote  of  Turner,  for  the  truth  of 
which  I  can  vouch.  In  Rathbone  Place  there  used  to  be 
a  print-shop,  kept  by  a  man  whose  name  I  forget ;  but  he 
was  well  known  as  a  very  superior  person  to  the  ordinary 
printseller  of  that  period,  having  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  his  business  and  a  great  love  of  art  in  all  its  forms.  He 
was,  of  course,  therefore,  a  great  admirer  of  Turner,  whose 


96  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Liber  Studiorum  "  he  appreciated ;  and  whenever  one  of 
that  wonderful  set  of  engravings  could  be  found  the  Rath- 
bone  Place  connoisseur  bought  it  if  possible.  In  some  way 
or  other  a  fine  plate  from  the  "  Liber  "  series  came  into  his 
possession,  much  damaged  by  stains  and  rough  usage. 
Feeling  that  it  could  scarcely  be  further  injured,  he  placed 
it  in  his  shop-window.  In  passing  one  day  Turner  saw 
the  damaged  print,  bounced  into  the  shop,  and  fell  foul  of 
the  printseller. 

"It's  a  confounded  shame  to  treat  an  engraving  like 
that !"  pointing  to  the  window.  "  What  can  you  be  think- 
ing about  to  go  and  destroy  a  good  thing — for  it  is  a  good 
thing,  mind  you !" 

"  I  destroy  it !"  said  the  shopman,  in  a  rage.  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  saying  I  destroyed  it  ?  and  who  the  devil 
are  you,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  I  didn't  ask  you  to  buy 
it,  did  I?  You  don't  look  as  if  you  could  understand  a 
good  print  when  you  see  one.  I  destroy  it!  Bless  my 
soul,  I  bought  it  just  as  it  is,  and  I  would  rather  keep  it 
till  Doomsday  than  sell  it  to  you  ;  and  why  you  should 
put  yourself  out  about  it,  I  can't  think." 

"  Why,  I  did  it,"  said  Turner. 

"  Did  what !  did  you  spoil  it  ?  If  you  did,  you  de- 
serve— " 

"  No,  no,  man  !  my  name's  Turner,  and  I  did  the  draw- 
ing, and  engraved  the  plate  from  it." 

"Bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  the  printseller.  " Is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  are  the  great  Turner !  Well,  sir,  I  have 
long  desired  to  see  you  ;  and  now  that  I  have  seen  you,  I 
hope  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  for  a  more  disagreeable 
person  I  have  seldom  met." 

Until  Mr.  Ruskin  opened  the  eyes  of  the  public  to  Turn- 
er's merits  his  pictures  rarely  sold,  and  when  they  did  sell 
they  only  fetched  small  prices.  Mr.  Munro,  of  Novar,  at 
whose  house  in  Hamilton  Place  I  once  met  Turner  at  din- 
ner, possessed  several  of  his  pictures,  for  each  of  which  he 
had  paid,  as  he  told  me  himself,  two  hundred  pounds ; 
among  them  was  that  magnificent  picture  of  the  "  Grand 
Canal  at  Venice  "  which  was  purchased  by  Lord  Dudley, 
after  Mr.  Munro's  death,  for  something  under  eight  thou* 


THE    "OLD   ENGLISH   MERRY-MAKING."  97 

sand  guineas.  Others  of  his  works,  from  the  Bicknell 
and  Munro  collections,  fetched  correspondingly  large 
sums. 

Mr.  Munro,  a  Scottish  laird,  was  also  an  artist  of  some 
ability,  and  the  possessor  of  many  fine  old  masters,  as  well 
as  of  modern  works.  Turner  lived  in  Queen  Anne  Street, 
and  at  the  back  of  his  house  he  had  built  a  large  gallery, 
and  had  completely  filled  it  with  unsold  works,  numbers 
of  which  now  form  part  of  the  collection  in  the  National 
Gallery. 

I  can  never  forget  the  woe -begone  appearance  of  the 
long  gallery  to  which  Turner  had  consigned  his  pictures. 
The  walls  were  almost  paperless,  the  roof  far  from  weath- 
er-proof, and  the  whole  place  desolate  in  the  extreme. 

"  Though  the  very  look  of  the  place  was  enough  to  give 
a  man  a  cold,"  said  Munro  to  me  when  I  met  him  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  "  I  found  Turner  an  hour  ago  crouch- 
ing over  a  morsel  of  tire  in  the  gallery,  with  a  dreadful 
cold  upon  him,  muffled  up  and  miserable." 

"Yes,  here  I  am,"  said  Turner,  "  with  all  these  unsala- 
ble things  about  me.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  get  rid 
of  them ;  I  would  sell  them  cheap  to  anybody  who  would 
take  them  where  I  couldn't  see  them  any  more." 

"  Well,"  said  Munro,  "  what  will  you  take  for  the  lot  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  you  may  make  me  an  offer  if  you 
like." 

Munro  told  me  he  took  but  a  few  minutes  to  look  at  the 
pictures  and  make  a  mental  calculation,  and  then  he  offered 
to  write  a  check  for  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  for  the 
whole  of  them.  Turner's  bright-blue  eyes  glittered  for  a 
moment.  He  turned  to  the  fire  and  seemed  absorbed  in 
thought,  and  then,  addressing  Munro,  he  said, 

"  Go  and  take  a  walk,  and  come  back  in  an  hour,  and  I 
will  give  you  an  answer.  Thank  you  for  the  offer." 

"  It  is  now  about  time  to  go  back  to  Queen  Anne  Street," 
said  Munro,  "  so  I  wish  you  good-day." 

A  short  time  after  this  conversation  I  again  met  Mr. 
Munro. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  am  I  to  congratulate  you  on  the  pur- 
chase of  the  Turners  ?" 


98  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  No,"  replied  Munro.  "  When  I  got  back  to  the  old 
man,  his  first  words  were, 

" '  Hullo  !  what,  you  here  again  ?  I  am  very  ill ;  my 
cold  is  very  bad.' " 

"  Well,"  said  Munro,  "  have  you  decided ;  will  you  ac- 
cept my  offer  ?" 

"  No,  I  won't — I  can't.  I  believe  I'm  going  to  die,  and 
I  intend  to  be  buried  in  those  two  "  (pointing  to  the  "  Car- 
thage "  and  "  Sun  rising  through  Mist,"  which  now  hang 
near  the  Claudes  in  the  National  Gallery,  being  placed  in 
their  proximity  by  Turner's  especial  request).  "So  I 
can't ;  besides,  I  can't  be  bothered — good-evening." 

It  is  recorded  that  Turner  expressed  to  Chantrey  his 
determination  to  be  buried  in  these  two  famous  pictures. 
Chantrey's  comment  on  this  morbid  intention  was :  "  In- 
deed. Well,  if  that  bright  idea  is  carried  out  we  will  dig 
you  up  again,  and  unroll  you  as  they  do  the  mummies." 

For  two  or  three  years  after  I  was  elected  associate  a 
dinner  took  place  when  the  exhibition  closed,  at  which 
any  exhibitor  for  the  year  could  be  present,  provided  he 
was  introduced  by  a  me'mber  and  was  willing  to  pay  a 
guinea  for  the  privilege.  The  modern  soiree  is  now  given 
in  lieu  of  those  dinners,  but  those  dinners  were  very  pleas- 
ant meetings.  The  R.A.'s  seemed  to  lay  aside  a  little  of 
their  dignity,  and  most  of  them  were  very  courteous — if 
sometimes  slightly  patronizing — to  the  outsiders.  Those 
who  could  sing  or  tell  a  good  story — and  some  of  them 
could  do  both  —  willingly  added  to  the  general  hilarity. 
Edwin  Land  seer  sang  delightfully,  and  was  one  of  the 
best  story-tellers  I  ever  knew.  We  had  speeches,  too, 
and  on  one  "never-to-be-forgotten  occasion  a  speech  from 
Turner.  I  fear  a  written  description  will  give  but  a  faint 
notion  of  that  memorable  oration,  the  only  one  he  was 
ever  known  to  deliver.  The  stammering,  the  long  pauses, 
the  bewildering  mystery  of  it,  required  to  be  witnessed 
for  any  adequate  idea  to  be  formed.  In  writing  I  fear  it 
is  impossible  to  convey  it.  It  was  not  unlike  the  most 
incomprehensible  of  his  later  pictures,  mixed  up  with  the 
"Fallacies  of  Hope."  He  looked  earnestly  at  the  guests 
before  he  began,  and  then  spoke  as  follows  :  "  Gentlemen, 


THE    "OLD    ENGLISH    MERRY-MAKING."  99 

I  sec  some — "  (pause,  and  another  look  round)  "  new  faces 
at  this — table —  Well — do  you — do  any  of  you — I  mean 
— Roman  history — "  (a  pause).  "  There  is  no  doubt,  at 
least  I  hope  not,  that  you  are  acquainted — no,  unacquaint- 
ed— that  is  to  say — of  course,  why  not  ? — you  must  know 
something  of  the — old — ancient — Romans."  (Loud  ap- 
plause.) "Well,  sirs,  those  old  people — the  Romans  I  al- 
lude to — were  a  warlike  set  of  people — yes,  they  were — 
because  they  came  over  here,  you  know,  and  had  to  do  a 
good  deal  of  fighting  before  they  arrived,  and  after  too. 
Ah !  they  did  ;  and  they  always  fought  in  a  phalanx — 
know  what  that  is?"  ("Hear,  hear,"  said  some  one.) 
"  Do  YOU  know,  sir  ?  Well,  if  you  don't,  I  will  tell  you. 
They  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  won  everything." 
(Great  cheering.)  "  Now,  then,  I  have  done  with  the  Ro- 
mans, and  I  come  to  the  old  man  and  the  bundle  of  sticks 
— JEsop,  ain't  it  ? — fables,  you  know — all  right — yes,  to 
be  sure.  Well,  when  the  old  man  was  dying  he  called  his 
sons — I  forget  how  many  there  were  of  'em — a  good  lot, 
seven  or  eight  perhaps — and  he  sent  one  of  them  out  for 
a  bundle  of  sticks.  '  Now,'  says  the  old  man, '  tie  up  those 
sticks  tight,'  and  it  was  done  so.  Then  he  says,  says  he, 
'Look  here,  young  fellows,  you  stick  to  one  another  like 
those  sticks ;  work  all  together,'  he  says,  '  then  you  are 
formidable.  But  if  you  separate,  and  one  go  one  way, 
and  one  another,  you  may  just  get  broke  one  after  an- 
other. Now  mind  what  I  say,'  he  says — "  (a  very  long 
pause,  filled  by  intermittent  cheering).  "Now,"  resumed 
the  speaker,  "  you  are  wondering  what  I  am  driving  at " 
(indeed  we  were).  "  I  will  tell  you.  Some  of  you  young 
fellows  will  one  day  take  our  places,  and  become  members 
of  this  Academy.  Well,  you  are  a  lot  of  sticks"  (loud 
laughter).  "  What  on  earth  are  you  all  laughing  at ! 
Don't  like  to  be  called  sticks?  wait  a  bit.  Well,  then, 
what  do  you  say  to  being  called  Ancient  Romans  ?  What 
I  want  you  to  understand  is  just  this — never  mind  what 
anybody  calls  you.  When  you  become  members  of  this 
institution  you  must  fight  in  a  phalanx  —  no  splits  —  no 
quarrelling — one  mind — one  object — the  good  of  the  arts 
and  the  Royal  Academy." 


100  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Turner  had  an  idea  which  he  desired 
to  impress  upon  us,  and  it  was  not  till  he  got  to  the  end  of 
his  speech  that  we  could  imagine,  as  he  said  himself,  what 
he  was  "driving  at."  Turner  died  in  1851.  He  had  been 
ailing  for  some  time,  and  had  gone  to  Ramsgate  in  the 
hope  of  improving  his  health;  a  slight  change  for  the  bet- 
ter took  place,  owing,  as  Turner  thought,  to  the  skill  of  a 
local  doctor,  and  the  sick  man  went  back  to  his  lodgings 
in  Chelsea,  where  his  illness  returned  upon  him  with  great 
virulence.  The  Ramsgate  practitioner  was  sent  for,  and 
without  a  moment's  delay  he  went  to  the  bedside  of  the 
dying  painter,  whose  condition  he  saw  instantly  was  hope- 
less. 

"  Well,  doctor,"  said  Turner,  "  you  can  cure  me  if  any- 
body can.  What's  the  verdict  ?  Tell  me  the  truth." 

"I  am  afraid  I  must  beg  you  to  lose  no  time  in  any 
worldly  arrangements  you  desire  to  make." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Turner;  "you  have  had  nothing  to 
eat  and  drink  yet,  have  you  ?" 

"No;  but  that's  of  no  consequence." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  Go  down-stairs  and  you  will  find  some  re- 
freshment; and  there  is  some  fine  brown  sherry  —  don't 
spare  it — and  then  come  up  and  see  me  again." 

The  doctor  refreshed  himself  and  then  returned  to  his 
patient. 

"Now  then,"  said  Turner,  "what  is  it?  Do  you  still 
think  so  badly  of  my  case  ?  Wasn't  that  good  sherry  ?" 

"I  grieve  to  say  I  cannot  alter  my  opinion." 

Turner  put  his  hand  out  of  bed,  pressed  that  of  the  doc- 
tor, turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  never  spoke  again. 
Later  in  the  day  he  died,  his  death  making  a  vacancy  in 
the  Academy  ranks  which  I  was  elected  to  fill — how  un- 
worthily, in  comparison  with  my  predecessor,  no  one  knows 
better  than  I. 

The  art  patron  is  often  a  strange  creature;  he  places, 
very  justly,  but  little  reliance  on  his  own  judgment.  "He 
knows  what  he  likes,"  but  whether  the  object  of  his  liking 
is  worthy  of  that  distinction  or  not  is  a  matter  about  which 
he  is  alarmingly  uncertain.  It  too  often  happens  that  until 
a  picture  has  received  the  "  hall-mark  "  of  the  picture-dealer 


THE    "OLD    KNGMSII    MERRY-MAKING."  101 

the  collector  is  not  satisfied;  but  after  that  he  is  often 
ready  to  pay  for  his  ignorant  incredulity  in  the  form  of  a 
great  advance  on  the  price  for  which  he  might  have  ac- 
quired the  work.  To  illustrate  this  from  my  own  experi- 
ence: a  distinguished  artist  friend  of  mine  painted  a  large 
picture,  for  which  he  asked  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  When 
the  work  was  nearly  finished,  one  of  the  Manchester  mer- 
chant princes  called  to  see  it,  admired,  and  inquired  the 
price. 

"  Too  much,"  said  the  collector;  "  give  you  twelve." 

"  No  you  won't,"  said  the  artist. 

"  Don't  put  yourself  out." 

"  I  am  not  put  out;  but  I  should  just  like  to  ask  you,  if, 
when  a  shopkeeper  asks  you  a  price  for  an  article,  you 
make  a  point  of  offering  him  a  good  deal  less  than  he 
asks?" 

"  Yes,  very  often,"  was  the  reply.  "  Won't  you  accept 
my  offer?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

A  few  days  later  the  collector  called  again,  and  repeated 
his  offer,  which  was  again  declined.  On  one  of  the  "  show  " 
days  the  picture  was  instantly  purchased  by  a  great  firm 
of  picture-dealers  for  fifteen  hundred  pounds,  and  sold  be- 
fore it  was  seen  by  the  public  for  three  thousand  pounds 
to  the  man  who  had  refused  to  pay  the  artist  his  own  more 
modest  price. 

Then  there  is  the  collector  who  is  always  ready  to  buy 
something  out  of  his  reach. 

"My  dear  sir,  how  I  regret  my  folly  in  not  possessing 
myself  of  your  beautiful  picture  of  last  year  !  Could  you 
not  make  me  a  copy  of  it  ?" 

"I  fear  not,  for  the  owner  of  the  picture  objects  to 
copies." 

This  conversation  would  take  place  in  the  presence  of 
the  picture  of  the  year,  which  might  be  at  that  moment 
unsold,  to  be  repeated  in  almost  similar  words  the  year 
after. 

Is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  artists  prefer  the 
dealer,  who  knows  his  own  mind,  to  the  patron  who  does 
not?  Turner,  on  the  other  hand,  detested  dealers;  he 


102  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

would  have  none  of  them.  And  a  story  is  told  of  one 
well-known  picture  merchant,  who  was  determined  — 
though  he  was  aware  of  Turner's  dislike  to  the  fraternity 
— to  see  the  famous  gallery  in  Queen  Anne  Street.  For- 
getting— or  perhaps  not  knowing — that  his  card  must  be 
given  to  the  servant  before  admission  could  be  obtained, 
or  believing,  possibly,  that  the  maid  merely  took  it  as  a 
matter  of  form,  he  was  proceeding  leisurely  up-stairs  into 
the  gallery,  when  he  found  himself  pulled  backwards  by 
his  coat-tails,  and  on  looking  round  saw  the  irate  face  of 
the  great  artist ;  who,  without  a  word,  pointed  to  the  front- 
door, through  which  the  dealer  made  an  ignominious  re- 
treat. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

PINNER-PARTY   AT    LORD   NORTHWICK*S. 

AMONG  the  patrons  and  lovers  of  art,  the  late  Lord 
North  wick  was  a  conspicuous  figure;  his  gallery  at  Chel- 
tenham was  filled  with  very  questionable  old  masters,  and 
some  few  good  modern  ones.  When  I  saw  his  collection, 
in  1846,  I  cannot  recall  a  single  fine  ancient  picture;  and 
the  two  modern  ones  I  remember  best  were  Maclise's 
"Strongbow"  (now  in  the  Dublin  National  Gallery)  and 
my  old  friend  Ward's  picture  of  the  "  Fall  of  Clarendon  " 
— a  work  I  had  the  great  satisfaction  of  recommending 
successfully  to  Lord  Northwick.  This  nobleman  was  one 
of  those  who  never  give  commissions  without  knowing 
for  what  sum  the  order  may  make  them  responsible;  and 
as  it  is  almost  impossible  for  a  painter  to  say  at  what 
value  he  can  safely  estimate  his  work  until  it  is  completed, 
a  commission  from  Lord  North  wick  was  not  greatly  cared 
for  in  times  when  purchasers  were  plentiful;  and  I  attrib- 
ute a  dislike  to  myself,  which  I  very  soon  discovered  in 
the  old  gentleman,  to  my  refusal  to  name  a  sum,  from  a 
small  sketch  that  I  showed  him,  for  a  large  picture  which 
was  to  be  painted  from  it.  His  dislike,  however,  did  not 
prevent  his  inviting  me  to  stay  a  few  days  at  Thirlstane 
House,  Cheltenham,  accompanied  by  my  friends  Frost  (an 
admirable  painter  of  poetic  subjects)  and  E.  M.  Ward,  both 
afterwards  Royal  Academicians.  Ward  was  a  well-read 
man,  an  admirable  talker,  and,  unfortunately,  a  wonderful 
mimic;  for  in  the  old  lord  was  found  food  for  mimicry  al- 
most impossible  to  resist,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  some 
of  our  attempts — for  I  plead  guilty  to  attempts,  inferior 
though  they  were  when  compared  with  such  a  master  in 
the  art  as  Ward — must  have  been  overheard  by  the  ser- 
vants, who  were  all  greatly  attached  to  their  master;  if  so, 


104  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

the  coolness  shown  in  the  end  to  all  of  us  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  and  I  must  say  it  was  well  deserved. 

When  a  young  man,  Lord  Northwick  had  been  placed 
at  the  court  of  Ferdinand  of  Naples,  in  the  position  of  at- 
tach'e  in  the  suite  of  the  English  ambassador  during  the 
great  French  war;  when  he  became  also  the  intimate  friend 
of  the  King  and  Queen  of  Naples,  and  of  Sir  William  and 
Lady  Hamilton. 

I  well  remember,  after  a  dinner-party  at  Thirlstane 
House,  Ward's  loudly-expressed  regret  that  a  shorthand 
writer  had  not  been  there,  so  that  the  many  anecdotes  we 
were  told  might  have  been  preserved.  Alas,  for  the  frail- 
ness of  memory  !  How  much  do  I  deplore  now  that  I  can 
remember  so  little  of  the  scenes  described  to  us,  in  which 
Lord  Nelson,  for  one,  figured  so  often  !  Lord  North  wick 
did  not  believe  that  the  friendship  for  Lady  Hamilton 
which  Nelson  professed  extended  beyond  the  bounds  of 
ordinary  friendship,  and  nothing  made  him  so  angry  as 
any  suggestion  to  the  contrary. 

"  Poor  dear  Lady  Hamilton!"  he  would  say,  in  his  shrill 
voice.  "  A  truer  wife,  a  warmer  friend,  or  a  better  woman 
never  breathed.  Why,  if  she  had  not  prevailed  upon  the 
King  of  Naples  to  victual  the  English  fleet — entirely  by 
her  influence — the  Battle  of  the  Nile  could  not  have  been 
fought;  and  it  is  to  the  eternal  disgrace  of  this  country 
that  the  poor  dear  creature  was  allowed  to  die  in  destitu- 
tion." 

As  a  sample  of  what  has  been  lost,  I  will  repeat,  as  well 
as  I  can  recall  it,  Lord  Northwick's  account  of  the  execu- 
tion of  Caracciolo. 

"  Though  an  admiral  in  the  service  of  King  Ferdinand," 
said  the  old  lord,  "  he  deserted  his  colors  and  assisted  the 
French,  and  he  was  justly  condemned  to  death.  Of  course, 
Nelson  could  have  saved  him  "  (this  in  reply  to  a  guest  at 
the  table),  "  but  why  should  he  ?  I  see  good  reason  why 
he  shouldn't.  On  the  day  fixed  for  the  execution,  Carac- 
ciolo asked  to  be  shot.  He  was  refused,  and  hanged  at 
the  yard-arm  of  a  ship  that  he  had  commanded.  I  was 
dining  on  board  the' Agamemnon  with  Nelson;  the  other 
guests  were  Ferdinand,  the  queen,  and  the  Hamiltons.  I 


DINNER-PABTY  AT  LOBD  NORTHWICK's.  105 

knew  the  execution  was  imminent,  but  not  the  precise 
time  fixed  for  it.  We  were  at  dessert  when  a  gun  was 
fired.  At  that  instant  Lady  Hamilton  filled  her  glass,  and, 
standing  up,  said  in  solemn  tones,  '  So  perish  all  the  ene- 
mies of  Naples !'  Nelson  motioned  me  to  the  cabin-win- 
dow. I  looked  out  and  saw  the  body  of  the  traitor  Carac- 
ciolo  swinging  from  the  yard-arm  some  hundreds  of  yards 
away.  '  I  am  d — d  glad  that  fellow  has  got  his  deserts!' 
said  Nelson."  Lord  Northwick  saw  by  the  shocked  coun- 
tenance of  some  of  his  guests  that  Nelson's  remark  had 
surprised  and  disgusted  them.  "  Oh,  you  are  shocked  at 
Nelson's  swearing.  It  was  nothing.  He  always  swore  at 
everything  and  anything — never  opened  his  mouth  with- 
out an  oath  coming  out  of  it.  If  it  was  a  fine  day,  it  was 

'  a fine  day.'  Was  he  quite  well  ?  '  Yes,  he  was ' 

(strong  adjective)  'well,'  and  so  on.  And  if  his  oaths, 
when  he  spoke  of  the  French,  could  have  taken  effect,  the 
whole  nation  would  have  gone  to  the  devil."  The  old  lord 
continued:  "The  king  and  queen  remained  that  night  on 
board  the  Agamemnon,  and  next  morning,  when  Ferdinand 
was  shaving  in  his  cabin,  we  were  startled  by  hearing  him 
call  out  in  a  loud  and  agitated  voice,  '  Vieni  qui,  vieni  qniT 
The  king  was  standing  by  the  cabin-window,  ghastly  pale, 
and  unable  to  speak.  He  pointed  to  something  in  the  sea. 
I  looked  out,  and  under  the  window  lay  the  body  of  Carac- 
ciolo,  his  face  upturned,  the  eyes  wide  open,  looking  at 
me.  I  shall  never  forget  that  sight. 

"  Poor  dear  Lady  Hamilton  !  the  last  time  I  saw  her 
was  at  Frascati's  gambling-rooms  in  Paris.  She  was  play- 
ing furiously.  Nelson  sat  next  to  her.  He  was  fast  asleep, 
with  his  head  on  her  shoulder." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Bonaparte,  my  lord  ?"  said  Ward. 

"  Only  once.  I  was  at  a  reception  at  the  Tuileries  when 
he  was  first  consul.  He  spoke  to  me,  but  I  don't  remem- 
ber what  he  said — a  commonplace  remark,  no  doubt." 

It  seemed  strange  to  us  that  "  poor  dear  Lady  Hamil- 
ton" should  have  been  so  completely  forgotten  by  the 
devoted  friends  she  possessed,  according  to  Lord  North- 
wick,  none  of  whom,  so  far  as  we  could  learn,  took  any 
notice  of  her  after  Nelson's  death.  Certainly  Lord  North- 
5* 


106  MY   AUTOBIOGBAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

wick  never  did,  as  the  last  time  he  saw  her  Nelson  was 
alive,  though  asleep. 

Lord  Northwick  showed  us  every  engraving  that  had 
been  executed  from  great  numbers  of  pictures  painted 
from  Lady  Hamilton  ;  many  lovely  heads  by  Romney 
among  them  ;  and  many  a  sigh  heaved  the  old  gentleman 
as  he  produced  them. 

There  is  no  truth,  I  think,  in  the  story  often  repeated 
to  me,  that  Lady  Hamilton  ever  sat  in  the  Life  School  of 
the  Royal  Academy.  Wilkie  met  her  in  society  once  or 
twice,  when  she  posed  with  drapery  in  imitation  of  antique 
statuary.  He  expressed  his  disappointment  with  her  ap- 
pearance, which  he  described  as  fat  and  vulgar,  with  man- 
ners to  match. 

At  the  time  of  our  visit  to  Cheltenham,  the  corn-law 
question  was  raging  with  great  fury,  and  Lord  Northwick 
made  such  long  and  tiresome  speeches  to  us  on  the  subject 
that  we  often  wished  him  in  the  House  of  Lords,  where 
his  eloquence,  strange  to  say,  was  never  heard.  He  almost 
wept  over  the  imminent  ruin  of  the  farmers,  and  the  pos- 
sible reduction  of  all  rents;  and  his  words,  "Protection  to 
native  industry,"  repeated  again  and  again  in  a  singing 
tone,  enabled  Ward  to  reproduce  the  very  voice  of  the 
speaker,  as  he  proved  on  many  a  winter's  evening  when, 
in  reply  to  "  Come,  "Ward,  let  us  have  a  protection  speech 
from  Lord  Northwick,"  he  would  improvise,  how  admi- 
rably! giving  us  the  sentiments  as  well  as  the  manner  of 
the  noble  protectionist.  After  we  had  been  some  days  at 
Cheltenham,  we  were  joined  by  a  young  artist  named  Hus- 
kisson,  who  had  painted  some  original  pictures  of  consider- 
able merit,  and  also  some  copies  from  old  masters  and 
others,  of  extraordinary  exactness.  Huskisson  was  a  very 
common  young  man,  entirely  uneducated.  I  doubt  if  he 
could  read  and  write;  the  very  tone  of  his  voice  was  dread- 
ful. He  never  could  have  heard  of  English  grammar;  and 
though  it  might  be  supposed  that  he  would  be  ill  at  ease 
at  a  dinner-party  at  Thirlstane  House — where  nearly  every 
guest,  male  or  female,  had  handles  to  their  names — he  was 
always  perfectly  self-possessed,  and,  judging  from  occa- 
sional bursts  of  laughter  which  followed  some  of  his  re- 


DINNKK-PAKTY   AT  LOUD   NOBTUWICK's.  107 

marks,  he  greatly  entertained  his  high-born  neighbors  at 
the  table. 

In  the  midst  of  a  silence  that  will  sometimes  prevail  at  a 
dinner-party,  Lord  Northwick,  who  sat  at  some  distance 
from  this  rough  specimen  of  our  profession,  called  to  him, 
and  said: 

"  Mr.  Huskisson,  was  it  not  a  picture-dealer  who  bought 
your  last  '  Fairy '  picture  ?" 

"  No,  my  lord !  no,  my  lord  !"  replied  Huskisson.  "  It 
were  a  gent." 

I  looked  at  the  faces  of  some  of  the  guests,  but  not  even 
a  smile  was  visible;  instead  there  appeared  to  me  expres- 
sions of  a  kind  of  tender  interest  in  the  strange  young 
man.  Within  a  year  of  our  visit,  Huskisson  died,  much  to 
my  regret,  for  I  feel  sure,  in  his  case,  death  cut  short  a 
brilliant  career.  A  picture  by  him,  full  of  poetic  fancy, 
was  engraved  for  the  Art  Journal.  Scarcely  any  one  who 
may  read  these  lines  will  remember  the  young  man.  I 
fear  his  performances  were  too  few  to  "  keep  his  memory 
green." 

We  left  Cheltenham  in  a  carriage-and-four  for  another 
house  belonging  to  Lord  Northwick,  called,  I  think,  North- 
wick.  On  the  way  we  called  on  Lord  Ellenborough,  who 
had  just  returned  from  governing  India:  he  was  from 
home.  As  we  drove  through  the  grounds,  we  passed  great 
quantities  of  laurels,  and  Ward  inquired  if  those  were  the 
laurels  Lord  Ellenborough  had  gained  in  India.  If  looks 
could  kill,  Ward  would  have  died  in  that  carriage,  for  the 
old  lord  not  only  bestowed  a  murderous  one  upon  the 
punster,  but  he  added: 

"Mr.  Ward,  you  have  painted  pictures  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
and  I  presume  you  are  acquainted  with  the  sentiments  of 
that  great  man  in  respect  of  puns." 

Said  Ward: 

"Oh,  yes!  I  know,  my  lord;  but  that  was  because  he 
couldn't  make  a  pun  himself." 

"I  differ  from  you,  sir;  Dr.  Johnson  could  say  anything 
or  do  anything.  The  last  thing  he  would  have  uttered 
would  have  been  a  poor  witticism  at  the  expense  of  a 
friend  of  his  host." 


108  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

"Well,  but,  my  lord,  I  beg  pardon  ;  I  don't  think  what 
I  said  could  be  called  a  pun." 

"  Sufficiently  like  one,  sir,  to  be  very  objectionable." 

At  Northwick  there  was  a  very  old  butler,  older  in  ap- 
pearance than  his  master;  he  had  been  in  the  family  all 
his  life — indeed  I  was  told  that  he  had  accompanied  Lord 
Northwick  in  his  first  pony-rides,  events  which  must  have 
happened  at  least  seventy  or  eighty  years  before  our  visit. 
The  meeting  of  master  and  servant  was  interesting,  even 
touching. 

"  Don't  let  that  old  chap  catch  you  taking  off  my  lord," 
said  I  to  Ward.  "  I  don't  think  he  would  approve." 

Though  the  old  butler  was  very  feeble,  he  insisted  on 
placing  the  dishes  on  the  table  at  dinner.  All  went  well 
so  long  as  the  burden  was  light,  but  a  haunch  of  venison 
proved  beyond  the  old  man's  strength ;  the  dish — a  heavy 
silver  one — slipped  from  his  fingers,  and  the  venison  fell 
upon  the  floor. 

"He  is  too  old,"  Lord  Northwick  whispered  to  me.  "  I 
can't  bear  to  tell  him  so,  dear  old  man.  He  is  forever 
dropping  something  or  other.  It  is  a  pity,  though ;  I 
should  have  liked  you  Londoners  to  have  tasted  that 
venison." 

Although  the  venison  was  denied  to  us,  we  had  a  dish 
cooked  from  the  furry  covering  of  the  deer's  horns,  made 
into  a  rich  mess,  the  like  of  which  I  had  never  seen  before, 
nor  have  I  since,  and  devoutly  do  I  hope  I  never  shall  see 
it  again;  taste  it,  I  never  would.  One  more  feeble  pun, 
and  I  take  leave  of  Lord  Northwick.  Frost  ate  some  of 
the  strange  compound  just  described,  and  when  his  trouble 
was  over,  he  whispered  to  me,  "This  is  not  cheap  and 
nasty,  but  deer  and  nasty." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ON    SUBJECTS. 

MY  own  reading  lay  chiefly  in  books  suggestive  of  sub- 
jects for  pictures — Sterne,  Goldsmith,  Moliere,  Cervantes, 
and  the  Spectator  taking  the  lead  of  all  others.  Shake- 
speare inspired  me  with  terror  as  well  as  admiration. 

It  was  vain  for  me  to  hope  to  rival  Leslie,  and  therefore 
dangerous  to  come  into  competition  with  the  painter  of  the 
"  Dinner  at  Page's  House,"  the  "  Autolycus,"  and  "  Per- 
dita,"  now  in  the  Sheepshanks  Gallery  at  South  Kensing- 
ton. I  have  never  meddled  with  Shakespeare  without 
regretting  my  temerity,  for  though  I  have  painted  several 
pictures  from  different  plays,  I  cannot  recall  one  that  will 
add  to  my  reputation.  From  the  Spectator,  however,  I 
did  better,  "Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  the  Saracen's 
Head,"  an  admirable  subject,  proving  one  of  the  best  of 
my  pictures  drawn  from  books.  The  incident  may  be 
briefly  described.  An  old  servant  of  Sir  Roger's  becomes 
the  landlord  of  an  inn,  and  to  do  honor  to  his  master  he 
has  the  knight's  head  painted  and  put  up  for  a  sign. 

Sir  Roger,  hearing  of  this  compliment,  sends  for  the 
man,  and  tells  him  the  honor  is  more  than  he  deserves,  or, 
indeed,  than  any  one  deserves,  under  the  rank  of  a  duke, 
and  the  sign  must  be  altered;  and  he,  Sir  Roger,  will  be 
at  the  "  charge  of  it."  Accordingly  an  artist  is  procured, 
who,  by  the  addition  of  a  terrible  frown  and  general  wild- 
ness  of  aspect,  transforms  the  knight's  likeness  into  a 
Saracen's  head. 

When  the  alteration  is  completed,  Sir  Roger,  accom- 
panied by  his  friend  the  "Spectator"  (Addison),  pays  a 
visit  to  the  inn,  and  the  sign  is  produced  for  the  inspection 
of  the  visitors.  Then,  says  the  "  Spectator,"  "  I  could  not 
forbear  discovering  greater  Expressions  of  Mirth  than  or- 


110  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

dinary  upon  the  Appearance  of  this  monstrous  Face,  under 
which,  notwithstanding  it  was  made  to  frown  and  stare  in 
a  most  extraordinary  manner,!  could  still  discover  a  distant 
Resemblance  of  my  old  Friend. 

"  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing  me  laugh,  desired  me  to  tell 
him  truly  if  I  thought  it  possible  for  People  to  know  him 
in  that  Disguise.  I  at  first  kept  my  usual  Silence;  but 
upon  the  Knight's  conjuring  me  to  tell  him  whether  it 
was  not  still  more  like  himself  than  a  Saracen,  I  com- 
posed my  Countenance  in  the  best  manner  I  could,  and 
replied, '  That  much  might  be  said  on  both  sides?  " 

I  found  many  wrould-be  purchasers  for  this  picture  —  it 
eventually  became  the  property  of  a  Mr.  Andrews,  of 
York,  who  had  made  a  fortune  in  the  railway  mania  so 
prevalent  in  1847. 

With  the  best  intention  possible,  Mr.  Andrews,  who  was 
a  great  friend  of  Hudson,  the  Railway  King,  induced  me 
to  take  shares  in  a  certain  line.  The  property  of  the 
Company  was  destroyed  for  a  time  by  the  panic  that  affect- 
ed all  railway  interests;  and  I  had  the  misfortune  of  see- 
ing the  shares  of  twenty-five  pounds  each,  upon  every  one 
of  which  eight  pounds  ten  had  been  paid,  quoted  in  the 
Times  at  half  a  crown  a  piece.  Mr.  Andrews  formed  a 
small  collection  of  pictures,  mainly  under  my  advice;  he 
was  ruined,  and  his  pictures  were  sold  at  Christie's,  when 
a  good  profit  was  made  upon  them,  but  far  from  sufficient 
to  satisfy  his  creditors;  and  this  truly  honorable  and  most 
amiable  man  died  broken-hearted. 

The  Spectator  inspired  me  with  a  subject  for  a  large 
picture  of  a  much  more  important  character  than  the 
"Saracen's  Head."  Readers  of  Addison  will  remember 
the  paper  in  which  Sir  Roger  has  to  deal  with  a  charge  of 
witchcraft  against  a  certain  Moll  White,  who  is  accused 
of  causing  dire  mischief  to  all  and  sundry  of  Sir  Roger's 
tenants,  and  of  "making  maids  spit  pins."  And  she  was 
brought  before  the  knight  to  answer  for  her  crimes. 

My  intention  was — as  my  first  sketch  proved — to  repre- 
sent Sir  Roger  himself,  Moll  White,  and  a  sick  virgin,  on 
the  precise  lines  of  the  Spectator's  paper;  but  further  re- 
flection led  me  to  amplify  the  theme,  and  I  finally  deter- 


ON   SUBJECTS.  Ill 

rained  to  take  the  incident  in  the  Spectator  as  a  peg  upon 
which  I  might  hang  a  story  of  deeper  interest.  So,  in  an 
old  English  mansion  with  oriel  windows  and  tapestried 
walls,  I  placed  a  lovelorn  damsel,  bewitched,  indeed,  by  a 
handsome  young  forester  in  Lincoln  green,  instead  of  by  a 
frightened  old  woman,  who  is  vehemently  accused  by  the 
mother  of  the  girl  of  having  caused  the  change  in  her  daugh- 
ter's health  and  spirits,  so  alarming  to  her  friends,  notably 
to  her  old  grandfather,  to  whom  she  clings  for  protection 
when  she  finds  herself  in  the  presence  of  the  grave  magis- 
trate— a  type  of  the  Elizabethan  nobleman — who  listens  to 
the  outpouring  of  the  mother  in  dignified  silence. 

A  clerk  writes  down  the  evidence;  the  magistrate's 
daughter  leans  on  her  father's  chair,  interested  in  the 
scene;  while  her  little  child  steals  a  fearful  glance  at  the 
dreadful  witch.  The  real  cause  of  the  mischief  stands  at 
a  little  distance,  twisting  his  hat,  uncertain  whether  to  re- 
veal himself,  and  still  more  uncertain  that  his  doing  BO 
would  save  the  old  woman  from  the  pond  or  the  stake.  A 
black  cat,  the  witch's  familiar,  is  held  above  her  head;  and 
additional  evidence  is  furnished  by  a  woman  at  the  room 
door,  who  brings  a  sick  child  whose  illness  can  only  be 
owing  to  the  devilries  of  the  old  woman. 

This  picture  and  the  "  Saracen's  Head "  were  my  con- 
tributions to  the  Exhibition  of  1848.  "The  Old  Woman 
Accused  of  Witchcraft "  was  bought  by  Mr.  Miller,  of 
Preston,  for  five  hundred  guineas.  Horrocks  and  Miller's 
"  Long  Cloth  "  is  known,  I  believe,  throughout  the  world. 
An  intimacy,  such  as  so  frequently  exists  between  artist  and 
patron,  arose  between  Mr.  Miller  and  me.  I  spent  many 
happy  hours  with  him  at  Preston.  He  was  one  of  the  tru- 
est gentlemen,  and  the  warmest  lover  of  art  for  art's  sake, 
that  I  have  ever  known.  He  died  long  ago,  while  com- 
paratively a  young  man,  leaving  his  collection  intact  in  the 
possession  of  his  widow. 

Though  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  the  first  of  the  band 
of  rapidly-rising  artist  friends  to  receive  the  honors  of  the 
Academy,  E.  M.  Ward,  Egg,  Stone,  Phillip,  and  others 
were  running  "  neck  and  neck  "  with  me. 

Ward's  admirable  picture  of  the  "  South  Sea  Bubble," 


112  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

now  in  the  National  Gallery,  secured  the  painter's  election 
as  an  associate  the  year  following  my  own. 

Egg  painted  an  excellent  picture  of  "  Queen  Elizabeth 
Surrounded  by  Ladies  and  Courtiers."  "Whether  apocry- 
phal or  not,  the  subject  was  one  well  suited  to  pictorial 
art.  It  is  said  that  the  queen  had  banished  looking-glasses 
for  many  years;  but  one  day,  towards  the  close  of  her  life, 
her  curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  fears,  and  she  sent  one 
of  her  ladies  for  a  mirror.  Judging  from  the  expression 
of  the  withered  old  face,  as  it  was  turned  away  from  the 
sad  sight  reflected  in  the  glass,  all  illusion  had  vanished, 
and  a  terror-stricken  conviction  that  every  trace  of  youth 
had  flown  was  at  last  as  palpable  to  the  old  queen  as  it 
had  long  been  to  everybody  else.  This  picture  greatly 
added  to  Egg's  reputation.  It  was  purchased  by  Mr. 
Miller,  and  hangs  at  this  moment  as  a  companion  to  my 
"  Witch  "  in  the  collection  at  Preston. 

Egg  continued  to  produce  pictures  of  great  excellence, 
the  best,  perhaps,  being  "  Peter  the  Great's  First  Sight  of 
Catherine  "  (afterwards  empress),  a  subject  which  I  found 
and  presented  to  Egg — an  act  of  generosity,  I  confess, 
much  repented  of  afterwards,  for  it  was  one  I  should  dear- 
ly like  to  have  ventured  upon  myself;  indeed,  I  had  made 
many  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  the  composition,  and  what 
"  amazing  devil  of  generosity  "  —  as  Dickens  said,  when  I 
told  him  of  my  gift  of  the  subject  to  Egg — prompted  such 
a  disinterested  act  of  good-nature  I  cannot  tell.  Egg  and 
I  were  fellow-students  at  Sass's  Academy,  and  fast  friends 
through  life — through  his  life,  I  should  say,  for  he  died  in 
his  prime,  but  not  until  he  had  attained  the  full  honors  of 
the  Royal  Academy.  I  shall  have  something  to  say  later 
on  of  charming  meetings  at  Ivy  Cottage  (Egg's  house),  in 
Black  Lion  Lane  (now  Queen's  Road),  Bayswater,  where 
at  delightful  dinners  I  met  Dickens  over  and  over  again, 
immortal  John  Leech,  Mark  Lemon,  John  Forster  (after- 
wards biographer  of  Dickens),  O'Neil,  Webster,  Phillip, 
Mulready,  Stone,  Mr.  Justice  Hawkins — then  so  gentle  and 
quiet  that  I  can  scarcely  credit  the  fiery  judge  with  being 
the  same  man  —  and  many  others,  most,  indeed,  nearly  all, 
of  whom  have  since  "joined  the  majority." 


ON   SUBJECTS.  113 

John  Phillip  —  afterwards  called  Phillip  of  Spain,  from 
the  many  wonderful  subjects  he  drew  from  that  country 
— came  to  London  a  very  raw  Scotch  lad,  and  became  a 
student,  of  the  Academy,  where  I  first  made  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  where  he  very  soon  gave  proof  of  great  natural 
genius.  He  was  a  protege  of  Lord  Panmure,  and  pupil  of 
Mr.  T.  M.  Joy,  a  portrait-painter  and  intense  admirer  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lawrence.  Philip  caught  the  fever,  painted 
with  great  facility  before  he  could  draw,  and  produced 
portraits  so  like  the  work  of  Lawrence  that  they  might 
easily  have  been  mistaken  for  indifferent  pictures  by  that 
fashionable  genius.  I  have  an  unfinished  one  of  myself 
that  would  prove  the  truth  of  this;  and  in  the  likeness 
done  of  Egg,  Philip  managed  to  include  all  Lawrence's 
faults  and  many  of  his  merits.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
conceive  greater  contrasts  than  would  be  afforded  by  a 
comparison  of  Philip's  earliest  works  with  his  latest.  He 
was,  at  one  time,  tainted  with  Pre-Raphaelitism.  His  first 
pictures  displayed  a  grasp  of  character,  but  color — one  of 
the  charms  of  his  later  works — was  conspicuous  by  its  ab- 
sence. It  was  only  after  the  second  visit  to  Spain  that 
Phillip's  real  power  showed  itself.  Then  came,  year  after 
year,  up  to  the  day  of  his  death,  pictures  of  extraordinary 
beauty;  which,  in  spite  of  the  caprice  of  fashion,  will  be 
eventually  considered  glories  of  the  British  school.  Though 
the  claims  of  Phillip  for  academic  honors  were  long  de- 
layed, he  took  the  lead,  in  my  opinion,  of  all  the  young 
men,  except  Millais  (not  excepting  myself,  of  course),  who 
were  added  to  the  academic  ranks  in  my  time. 

Frank  Stone  became  an  associate  somewhat  late  in  life, 
and  died  before  the  higher  honor  (recently  so  worthily 
attained  by  his  son  Marcus)  reached  him.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  know  Stone  intimately  without  loving  him;  for 
myself,  I  can  say  that  I  never  knew  any  man  for  whom  I 
had  so  warm  an  affection.  No  fair-weather  friend  was  he, 
but  true  as  steel  when  friendly  countenance  might  be  sore- 
ly needed.  Still,  I  confess,  there  were  drawbacks  to  the 
enjoyment  of  Stone's  society.  It  was  enough  for  any  one 
to  advance  an  opinion  for  Stone  to  differ  from  it.  The 
first  time  I  dined  with  him  at  Dickens',  having  then  had 


114  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    EEMINISCENCES. 

little  or  no  experience  of  his  peculiarity  in  that  respect,  I 
foolishly  got  into  an  argument  with  him — something  about 
Waterloo  —  and  finding  there  was  no  hope  of  agreement, 
and  that  we  were  boring  everybody  present,  I  allowed 
him  to  settle  the  matter  in  his  own  fashion;  but  he  was 
not  satisfied. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  are  you  convinced  ?" 

"  What  about  ?"  said  I. 

"  Why,  that  you  have  been  making  a  series  of  state- 
ments for  which  you  have  no  foundation  in  fact." 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,"  I  replied. 

After  dinner  Dickens  took  me  on  one  side,  and  inquired 
if  I  had  known  Stone  long. 

"  No,  a  very  short  time." 

"  I  thought  so.  Now  let  me  give  you  a  little  piece  of 
advice;  a  better  fellow  than  Stone  never  lived,  but  he  is 
always  in  the  right  about  every  earthly  thing,  and  if  you 
talk  till  Doomsday  you  will  not  convince  him  to  the  con- 
trary, so  I  advise  you  not  to  try  any  more;"  and  I  never 
did. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

PICTURE-SEEING   IN   BELGIUM   AND   HOLLAND. 

EGG,  Stone,  and  I  went  to  Belgium  and  Holland  for 
a  few  days,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  picture  -  seeing,  and 
then  the  constant  intercourse  made  Dickens'  advice  a  little 
difficult  to  follow;  but  we  got  on  very  well  until  the 
money  question  cropped  up.  I  was  the  only  one  of  the 
party  who  spoke  French.  All  arrangements  and  all  pay- 
ments, therefore,  were  made  by  me  —  a  settlement  being 
effected  by  my  informing  each  of  my  fellow-travellers 
of  the  extent  of  his  indebtedness  to  me  at  the  end  of  every 
three  or  four  days.  Stone  insisted  on  a  detailed  account 
of  every  item.  This  I  declined  to  give  him,  when  he  thus 
addressed  me: 

"My  dear  Frith,  if  you  think  my  desire  for  details 
arises  from  any  doubt  of  your  honesty  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself;  but  I  really  must  insist  on  knowing 
exactly  how  the  money  has  gone." 

My  answer  was: 

"  My  dear  Stone,  I  will  not  give  you  a  detailed  account 
of  the  way  in  which  I  have  spent  your  money;  but  I  will 
tell  you  what  you  are  indebted  to  me  at  the  end  of  our 
time." 

"  That  will  not  do  for  me,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Won't  it  ?"  said  I,  a  happy  thought  having  struck  me. 
"  Then  just  listen  to  this  :  I  will  tell  you  what  you  owe 
me,  and  you  may  pay  it  or  not,  just  as  you  like."  This 
settled  the  matter,  and  my  little  bill  was  met. 

The  following  extracts  from  letters  written  at  this  time 
to  my  mother  may  interest : 

"  BRUGES,  Sunday,  Jiify  7,  1850. 

"  You  may  remember  when  Egg  ai;d  I  went  up  the  Riiinc  some  years 
ago,  we  passed  through  Bruges  and  Antwerp,  and  were  then  told  there 


116  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

were  some  fine  old  pictures  in  a  convent  by  one  of  the  very  early  Flemish 
painters.  This  artist  flourished  the  sword  as  well  as  the  pencil,  and  he 
was  seriously  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Nancy ;  he  was  taken  to  the  hos- 
pital of  the  nunnery,  and  lay  at  the  point  of  death  for  many  months.  At 
last  the  care  and  good  treatment  of  the  worthy  nuns  prevailed,  and  his 
wounds  healed.  To  show  the  strength  of  his  gratitude,  he  painted  and 
presented  to  them  several  of  his  largest  and  best  works — all  Scriptural 
subjects,  of  course — and  they  have  remained  in  the  possession  of  the  sis- 
terhood ever  since,  much  to  their  profit ;  for  the  exhibition  has  proved  so 
attractive,  and  has  existed  for  so  long,  that  the  convent  is  the  richest  in 
Belgium. 

"We  were  now — 1850 — informed  that  there  was  another  collection  of 
pictures  well  worth  a  visit,  but  it  was  only  to  be  seen  after  service.  So 
after  dinner  we  got  a  man  to  show  us  the  way,  and  very  soon  we  pulled 
the  convent  bell,  but  to  no  purpose.  It  wanted  still  some  twenty  min- 
utes to  the  proper  hour  (so  a  woman  screamed  out  for  our  informa- 
tion), and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wander  about  and  kill  the 
time.  When  we  rang  again,  the  large  doors  opened — no  one  could  see 
by  whom ;  we  entered,  and  they  closed  behind  us  in  the  same  mysterious 
manner. 

"Across  a  courtyard,  and  there  was  another  bell  to  ring;  this  time  the 
door-opener  was  visible  enough  in  the  form  of  a  young  nun,  very  pretty, 
the  meekest,  mildest-looking  creature.  She  stood  looking  down  with  her 
hands  crossed  while  we  walked  in.  Without  a  word  she  motioned  us  to 
the  room  where  the  pictures  were,  shut  the  door  upon  us,  and  vanished; 
and  so  nipped  in  the  bud  some  most  elegant  speeches  that  were  brewing 
for  her  entertainment.  A  single  glance  sufficed  to  show  that  we  had  been 
deceived ;  for  the  collection  displayed,  in  that  holy  place,  every  vice  of 
which  a  picture  could  be  guilty.  There  were  a  good  many,  but  they  were 
bad  without  exception.  There  was  nothing  to  stop  for ;  but  how  to  get 
away  from  them !  the  doors  were  shut,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
patience,  and  the  hope  that  the  pretty  nun  would  reappear.  At  last  Egg 
discovered  one  picture  not  quite  so  bad  as  the  rest,  and  he  called  Stone 
and  me  to  look  at  it.  How  long  we  had  been  studying  it  I  can't  tell,  but 
happening  to  look  round,  I  was  not  a  little  startled  at  an  apparition  be- 
hind me,  in  the  shape  of  an  old,  ugly,  grim  nun,  standing  as  silent  as  a 
statue.  How  she  came  there  puzzles  me  to  this  moment.  I  was  so  taken 
aback  that  I  forgot  my  French,  and  spoke  to  her  in  English,  though  what 
I  said  I  know  no  more  than  she  did.  Her  head  shook  slowly,  implying, 
I  suppose,  that  the  study  of  the  English  language  had  been  neglected  in 
her  education.  She  then  turned  quietly  round  in  a  dreadfully  ghostlike 
manner,  and  stalked  away.  In  less  time  than  I  take  to  write  about  it, 
another  apparition  presented  itself;  but  this  time  it  was  our  pretty  nun 
again,  who  immediately  informed  us,  with  the  smile  of  an  angel,  that  she 
spoke  a  little  English,  but  very  '  leetel.' 

"  Stone  (who,  being  by  far  the  best-looking  of  the  trio,  did  all  the  gal- 
lantry during  the  journey)  here  struck  in  with  the  elegant  speech  he  had 
prepared  some  time  before ;  but  his  ideas  Uidn't  flow  in  their  usual  lira- 


PICTURE-SEEING   IN    BELGIUM    AND    HOLLAND.          117 

pid  course,  which  somewhat  surprised  me,  till  I  saw  that  the  old  nun  had 
followed  her  pretty  sister  very  closely,  and  had  fixed  her  leaden  eyes  upon 
poor  Stone,  to  the  utter  destruction  of  his  fine  speech. 

"  The  pretty  nun  and  her  body-guard  accompanied  us  into  the  chapel, 
which  smelt  overpoweringly  of  incense.  There  were  the  cushions  that 
seemed  as  if  they  had  just  been  knelt  upon ;  the  wax  candles,  the  offer- 
ings, etc.  The  old  nun  instantly  went  down  on  her  knees,  pulled  out  a 
little  black  book,  and  prayed  fervently,  as  if  she  felt  she  had  no  time  to  lose. 
The  pretty  nun  told  us  in  the  most  charmingly  simple  manner  that  they 
never  went  out,  they  knew  nothing  about  the  world,  they  spent  their  time 
in  teaching  poor  children ;  and  that  their  chapel  was  dedicated  to  '  The 
Assumption  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.'  I  shall  never  forget  her  way  of  pro- 
nouncing the  last  few  words ;  there  was  a  timid  solemnity  about  her  broken 
English  inexpressibly  charming.  As  soon  as  the  old  nun  (who  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  had  a  beard)  saw  we  were  leaving  the  chapel,  she  made  an  end 
of  her  prayers,  shut  up  the  little  black  book,  and  followed  us  closely. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  see,  so  I  prepared  to  pay,  and  at  the  door  I 
put  a  franc,  the  usual  sum  given,  into  the  pretty  nun's  hand.  She  turned 
very  red,  and  I  saw  there  was  something  wrong.  The  old  nun,  who  had 
her  leaden  eye  on  everything,  gave  her  a  nod ;  and  then  she  came  up  to 
me  and  said  in  her  pretty  way  that  each  person  must  pay  half  a  franc,  and 
as  there  were  three  of  us,  I  had  given  too  little.  '  It  was  for  the  poor 
children,'  she  said.  So  instead  of  another  half-franc,  we  gave  her  a  whole 
one,  and  so  came  away.  .  .  ." 

"GHENT,  July,  1850. 

"  After  Bruges  we  went  to  Ghent,  where  there  are  many  pictures,  and, 
as  a  city,  it  is  particularly  interesting.  The  people  at  the  hotel  at  Bruges 
recommended  us  to  a  hotel  at  Ghent,  and  as  we  had  been  uncommonly 
well  treated  at  the  former  place  we  followed  their  advice,  and  the  con- 
sequence was  we  were  located  in  the  best  hotel  in  the  place.  Ghent,  as 
you  perhaps  know,  is  the  principal  town  of  Flanders,  and  tens  one  of  the 
richest  cities  in  the  world,  famous  for  its  manufactures  of  all  sorts,  es- 
pecially cloths,  and  for  the  vigorous  stand  constantly  made  by  the  mer- 
chants against  unpalatable  taxes  and  against  what  they  justly  considered 
the  misgovcrnment  of  the  counts  of  Flanders.  Many  times  were  they 
defeated,  and  as  often  had  to  send  the  principal  offenders,  with  ropes 
round  their  necks  and  only  covered  by  their  shirts,  to  beg  for  mercy  from 
such  men  as  Charles  the  Bold,  and  also  from  the  Spaniards,  who  then  held 
all  the  Low  Countries.  The  most  beautiful  remains  of  domestic  archi- 
tecture to  be  found  in  Ghent  are  the  houses  built  by  the  Spaniards.  I 
could  fancy  I  traced  something  Moorish  in  some  of  the  Spanish  buildings. 
The  wicked  Duke  d'Alva,  who  united  in  his  disposition  the  most  ferocious 
cruelty  with  the  most  intense  religious  bigotry,  has  left  his  mark  on  Ghent 
to  the  present  moment,  for  he  sent  a  cannon-ball  bang  through  the  cen- 
tre of  the  principal  bell  at  the  top  of  the  famous  Bell  Tower.  One  of  the 
scenes  of  Taylor's  play  of  'Philip  Van  Artevclde'  is  laid  in  the  Bell  Tower 
of  Ghent.  This  last-named  person  wad  one  of  those  who,  possessing  great 


118  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

powers,  occasionally  raise  themselves  above  their  fellows,  and  suffer  in 
consequence.  Van  Artevelde  did  more  to  raise  Ghent  to  its  commercial 
prosperity  than  all  the  rest  of  the  merchants  put  together.  He  was  made 
chief  magistrate,  and  of  course  became  odious  to  many  on  account  of  his 
success;  and  his  enemies  at  last  persuaded  the  people  that  he  intended 
to  sell  them  to  the  King  of  England ;  and  one  day,  when  he  had  returned 
from  England,  his  house  was  stormed,  and  he  was  torn  to  pieces.  His 
house  still  exists,  and  there  is  a  tablet  recording  his  destruction.  Of  all 
the  commissioners,  as  they  are  called  (persons  who  are  hired  by  strangers 
to  show  the  sights  of  the  town),  the  one  at  Ghent  was  the  most  intelli- 
gent. He  was  exceedingly  angry  if  we  didn't  admire  all  that  he  showed 
us.  His  knowledge  of  pictures  was  small,  and,  therefore,  he  occasionally 
directed  our  attention  to  great  rubbish,  and  his  rage  when  we  found  fault 
was  laughable.  However,  he  certainly  took  us  to  one  picture — '  St.  Ba- 
von,'  by  Rubens — that  we  praised  to  his  heart's  content.  We  told  our 
commissioner  our  principal  object  was  pictures,  and  that  he  must  take  us 
where  there  were  the  best.  He  told  us,  with  a  knowing  look,  he  would 
show  us  the  finest  in  the  world,  and  great  was  his  disgust  when  we  turned 
up  our  noses.  I  couldn't  understand  him,  as  he  spoke  Dutch  to  the  man 
who  had  charge  of  them  ;  but  I  never  saw  contempt  stronger  on  anybody's 
face  in  all  my  life:  he  evidently  thought  we  were  affecting  a  taste  for 
pictures,  knowing  nothing  about  them.  Our  friend  had  but  one  arm  (the 
left  one),  and  we  were  curious  to  know  how  he  had  lost  its  fellow.  It  ap- 
pears he  was  unable  to  restrain  his  curiosity  during  the  Revolution  (at  the 
time  of  the  separation  of  Belgium  from  Holland),  and  he  must  needs  go 
among  the  crowd  who  were  being  driven  backwards  and  forwards  by  the 
soldiery.  Seeing  many  people  killed  about  him,  he  thought  he  was  not  in 
a  particularly  safe  position,  and  the  sooner  he  got  to  his  own  home  the 
better.  After  one  of  the  charges  by  the  military,  he  found  himself  within 
a  few  yards  of  his  own  door.  It  was  shut,  of  course ;  he  raised  his  right 
arm  to  ring  the  bell,  when  whiz !  bang !  came  a  ball  and  shattered  it — 
'  So  I  was  obliged  to  ring  with  my  left  hand,  sir,'  concluded  our  irritable 
friend.  There  is  a  very  remarkable  religious  establishment  in  Ghent 
called  the  Great  Beguinage ;  it  is  quite  a  little  town  surrounded  by  water. 
You  enter  through  a  sort  of  half-fortified  gateway,  and  there  are  streets 
and  squares,  all  in  miniature  proportion,  like  any  town.  The  place  con- 
tains more  than  six  hundred  nuns,  all  living  alone  in  separate  houses; 
they  have  left  their  worldly  names  outside  the  gates,  and  are  known  by 
the  names  of  different  saints,  adopted  according  to  their  fancy,  and  painted 
over  every  door.  They  have  a  beautiful  chapel,  in  which  they  may  be 
seen  any  evening  by  strangers ;  it  is  only  by  attending  the  chapel  that  you 
can  see  them  assembled,  otherwise  your  knowledge  is  limited  to  an  occa- 
sional sight  of  a  solitary  nun  as  she  walks  quietly  through  the  little  streets 
to  her  own  home,  returning,  perhaps,  from  some  sick  person's  bed  in  the 
town.  They  have  their  property  at  their  own  separate  disposal,  and  they 
can  leave  the  convent  if  they  are  so  inclined.  This  is  a  very  singular 
regulation,  and  it  is  their  boast  that,  though  they  have  existed  as  a  body 
many  hundreds  of  years,  there  has  never  been  an  instance  of  secession. 


PICTURE-SEEING    IN   BELGIUM    AND    HOLLAND.         119 

The  'Grand  Bcguinage'  is  the  only  religious  establishment  that  was  not 
molested  by  Bonaparte.  He  considered  it  so  well  calculated  to  do  good, 
and  its  laws  framed  on  so  excellent  a  plan,  that  he  showed  the  good  nuns 
the  light  of  his  countenance,  and  never  interfered  with  their  quiet  du- 
ties. .  .  . 

"  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  of  an  incident  that  took  place  the  night 
we  slept  at  Ghent.  The  day  had  been  close,  sultry,  and  oppressive,  not  a 
breath  of  air  stirring,  and  I  think  it  was  pretty  well  midnight  before  we 
went  to  bed.  We  generally  managed  to  get  our  bedrooms  together,  or  as 
nearly  so  as  might  be ;  and  it  happened  that  Stone  and  I  were  placed  near 
each  other.  The  partition  that  separated  the  rooms  was  thin,  and  we 
could  talk  comfortably  through  the  walls.  When  our  candles  were  ex- 
tinguished, we  found  our  rooms  as  light  as  day  with  the  moonlight  We 
both  got  up,  opened  our  windows,  and  leaning  out  we  paid  the  lovely 
night  many  compliments.  It  was  certainly  exquisite — our  windows  over- 
looked the  inn  garden — the  trees  and  walks,  and  the  white  statues  look- 
ing charming  in  the  moonlight.  Perhaps  we  talked  rather  loud ;  whether 
we  did  or  not,  somebody  heard  us,  for  I  was  in  the  middle  of  a  lovely 
speech  to  the  moon  (which  Stone  was  laughing  at,  by-the-bye),  when  the 
head  of  a  woman  with  a  night-cap  on  it  was  poked  out  of  the  window  be- 
neath me,  and  a  vixenish  voice  said,  in  unmistakable  English,  'Perhaps 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  remember  there  are  other  people  in  the  hotel 
besides  yourselves,  and  they  are  not  fond  of  such  noises  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  as  you  are  making.'  The  vixenish  face  disappeared,  and  down 
went  the  window.  Stone  finished  his  laugh  at  my  speech  rather  louder 
perhaps  than  the  lady  liked,  and  wishing  her  a  very  good-night,  we  went 
to  bed." 

"BRUSSELS,  1850. 

"  We  had  received  such  unfavorable  accounts  of  the  pictorial  treasures 
at  Brussels  that  we  should  have  passed  over  that  place  altogether  but  for 
the  fact  of  our  having  accepted  letters  of  introduction  to  two  of  the  most 
famous  artists  of  Belgium,  Messrs.  Galluit  and  Geefa,  whose  acquaintance 
we  were  very  desirous  of  making.  See  us  then,  immediately  after  our 
arrival  at  'Belgium's  capital,'  hiring  a  carriage  and  a  commissioner — a 
horrible  rascal,  by  the  way— determined  to  sec  everything  as  quickly  as 
possible.  First  of  all  to  Mr.  Gallait,  who  lived  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town ; 
a  long  and  wearisome  journey.  Our  horses  seemed  to  have  been  in  tho 
employment  of  an  undertaker,  and  no  whipping  would  prevail  on  them  to 
quicken  their  funereal  pace.  And  the  long,  regular  streets !  up  one,  down 
another,  all  so  much  alike  that  I  could  fancy  we  were  continually  going  up 
and  down  the  same  hot  street  for  a  punishment.  At  last  the  gates  of 
Brussels  were  passed,  and  we  reached  Mr.  Gallait's,  whom  we  fortunately 
found  at  home.  If  one  might  judge  of  the  prosperity  of  the  artists  in  Bel- 
gium by  the  style  in  which  Gallait  seems  to  vegetate,  it  would  appear  that 
the  sooner  one  takes  up  one's  bed  and  goes  to  Brussels  the  better ;  but  tho 
great  painter's  account  of  the  patronage  he  has  received,  and  the  evident 
comfort  iu  which  he  lives,  do  not  agree  in  the  least ;  for  he  told  us  that 


120  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

since  he  had  been  working  in  Belgium,  for  nine  years,  he  had  sold  but  two 
pictures  to  private  buyers,  the  State  being  the  patron — how  unlike  Eng- 
land !  Gallait's  house  is  large  and  splendidly  appointed,  with  a  lovely  gar- 
den and  the  best  studio  I  ever  saw.  He  is  a  remarkably  handsome  man, 
very  dark,  with  a  long,  black  beard.  Not  a  word  of  English  could  he  utter, 
so  I  was  obliged  to  be  spokesman.  We  had  not  come  at  a  good  time,  he 
said,  for  he  had  little  to  show  us — chiefly  portraits,  but  those  very  good 
and  very  English  in  the  style  of  painting.  When  our  queen  was  in  Bel- 
gium she  gave  Gallait  two  commissions,  which  he  executed,  and  the  two 
pictures  are  now  at  Windsor.  There  were  many  small  pictures  and 
sketches  in  his  room  unsold,  "  malheureusement"  as  he  said.  We  went 
from  Gallait's  to  the  Palais  de  Justice,  where  is  a  colossal  work  by  him — 
the  abdication  of  one  of  the  kings  of  Spain  in  favor  of  his  son — which 
raised  the  painter  still  higher  in  our  estimation.  Our  next  visit  was  to  Mr. 
Geefs,  the  sculptor,  and  mighty  polite  he  was,  speaking  capital  English. 
A  voluble,  energetic  little  chap ;  it  was  quite  pleasant  to  talk  to  him.  His 
chief  work  is  an  immense  group,  composed  of  several  figures,  to  com- 
memorate those  who  fell  in  the  Revolution.  It  is  placed  in  a  square  called 
4  the  Place  of  the  Martyrs,'  over  the  bodies  of  the  martyrs  aforesaid.  To 
examine  it,  you  must  descend  into  a  kind  of  vault,  where  may  be  read  in 
letters  of  gold  the  names  of  those  '  slain  in  the  defence  of  liberty,'  as  the 
old  soldier  custodian  expressed  it.  There  were  vast  numbers  from  all 
parts  ;  their  places  of  abode  inscribed  after  each  name.  Some  from  Italy, 
some  from  Ireland,  and  one  or  two  Englishmen  among  them.  We  felt  the 
policy  of  thus  '  provoking  the  silent  dust  with  honor's  voice,'  especially 
with  such  people  as  the  Belgians,  many  of  whom  would  almost  sacrifice 
their  lives  for  the  sake  of  a  corner  among  those  gilded  names.  Imagine 
the  powerful  incentive  on  future  occasions,  when  they  know  that  if  they 
fall  their  families  will  be  provided  for,  and  their  names  go  down  to  an  ad- 
miring posterity  in  letters  of  gold. 

" '  Now  remember,'  said  Stone,  being  dreadfully  out  of  temper  with  our 
commissioner,  who  wanted  to  take  us  to  sec  lace-making  and  nonsense  of 
that  sort — '  remember,  I  say,  that  pictures  are  our  object,  and  as  we  have 
very  little  time,  you  will  be  good  enough  to  take  us  only  to  places  where 
pictures  are  to  be  seen.' 

'"  Very  well,  gentlemen  ;  very  well,'  was  the  invariable  reply  ;  and  as 
invariably  did  he  propose  botanical  gardens,  or  crockery-shops,  or  a  sala- 
mander— '  a  very  rare  beast '  that  was  to  be  seen  a  few  miles  away.  The 
conviction  came  upon  us  that  he  got  a  fee  from  the  proprietors  of  these 
different  objects  of  attraction,  and  we  told  him  so  by  way  of  stopping  his 
proposals ;  but  nothing  would  do — he  was  the  most  persevering  wretch  I 
ever  met  with.  We  had  been  told  of  a  large  collection  of  modern  Belgian 
and  French  pictures  belonging  to  a  merchant,  a  Mr.  Van  der  Something. 
So  without  more  ado  we  ordered  our  commissioner  to  take  us  to — what 
seemed  to  plain  English  comprehension — a  large  establishment  in  the  gro- 
cery business.  We  walked  into  a  large  shop,  and  were  told  by  an  old  lady 

who  was  serving  behind  t"he  counter — Mrs.  Van  der ,  I  have  no  doubt 

— that  if  we  would  do  her  the  honor  to  give  ourselves  the  trouble  to  walk 


PICTURE-SEEING   IN    BELGIUM   AND    HOLLAND.          121 

'  down  there,'  waving  her  hand  gracefully  towards  an  avenue  of  tea-chests, 
orange-boxes,  etc.,  etc.,  we  should  arrive  at  '  the  picture-gallery.1  We  fol- 
lowed her  directions,  and  without  losing  our  way  among  the  groceries,  we 

reached  the  pictures  and  Mr.  Van  der himself,  who  was  playing  the 

part  of  showman  to  some  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  seemed  in  raptures 
with  the  pictures.  'And  is  this,'  we  all  exclaimed,  '  a  display  of  the  choic- 
est pictures  that  the  Belgian  school  can  produce  ?  if  so,  we  may  be  justly 
proud  of  our  own.'  But  what  were  we  to  say  to  the  picture-loving  grocer, 
who  was  all  agape  to  catch  our  praise,  and  praise  we  could  not?  Wo 
made  a  shabby  excuse  of  being  pressed  for  time,  and  so  left  him  with  a 
firm  conviction  on  his  mind  that  we  were  three  English  fools  who  neither 
cared  for  pictures  nor  understood  them. 

"'Now,  gentlemen,'  said  the  commissioner,  'there  is  only  the  Museum 
where  there  are  pictures,  not  good  ones  '  (there  was  nothing  to  pay  there, 
so  our  friend  could  receive  no  bribr);  '  so  you  will  perhaps  have  time  to  go 
and  see  the  lace-making;  it  is  really — ' 

"  '  Confound  both  you  and  the  lace  !  Why  the  devil  don't  you  cease  to 
bother  us !'  said  Stone. 

"  '  Very  well,  gentlemen ;  very  well.' 

"  So  to  the  Museum  we  went,  and  found  a  very  large  and  indifferent 
collection,  scarcely  a  good  picture  in  the  lot ;  some  real  Rubens,  but  very 
poor  ones.  There  is  really  nothing  that  one  remembers  with  pleasure. 
This  finished  our  picture-seeing,  and  we  were  nearly  finished  ourselves  with 
the  intolerable  heat  and  dust. 

"  '  Now,  then,  drive  to  the  hotel  as  fast  as  these  undertaker's  horses  of 
yours  will  go.' 

"  '  Very  well,  gentlemen — very  well ;  but  there  is  a  salamander  to  be 
seen  in  the  garden  of — ' 

" '  D — n  the  salamander  and  you  too  !'  said  Egg. 

"  '  Very  well,  gentlemen.' 

"  And  to  the  hotel  we  went,  and  soon  after  found  ourselves  at  the  sta- 
tion, attended  by  our  commissioner,  whose  services  were  required  to  look 
after  the  luggage.  I  think  the  fellow  felt  he  had  not  made  an  agreeable 
impression  upon  us,  for  as  we  were  sitting  in  the  train  on  the  point  of 
starting  for  Antwerp,  he  put  his  ugly  face  in  at  the  window,  and  said : 

" '  I  beg  pardon,  gentlemen,  but  if  you  should  come  to  Brussels  again, 
I  would  advise  you  by  all  means  to  see  the  salamander  :  you  have  not  such 
a  thing  in — ' 

"  We  all  three  gave  him  our  blessing,  and  in  the  midst  of  '  Very  well, 
gentlemen — very  well,'  we  left  for  Antwerp." 

ANTWERP,  Auguti,  1850. 

"  Stone  not  being  well,  Egg  and  I  started  early  on  our  pictorial  pilgrim- 
age. Antwerp,  of  all  Belgian  towns,  is  richest  in  the  pictures  of  Rubens. 
In  Antwerp  he  lived,  and  there  he  died  ;  his  body  lies  in  the  church  of  St 
Jacques,  under  the  high-altar  of  a  little  chapel  in  one  of  the  side  aisles. 
One  of  his  finest  pictures  decorates  the  altar,  the  subject  being  a  holy 
family  with  attending  saints.  The  handsomest  of  Rubens'  wives  repre- 
6 


122  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

sents  the  Virgin ;  the  great  painter  himself  is  contented  to  play  the  in- 
ferior part  of  St.  George,  while  his  children  disport  themselves  as  cherubim 
of  ravishing  beauty.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Rubens  greatly  honored 
Antwerp,  and  in  these  latter  days  Antwerp  has  returned  the  compliment 
by  placing  a  large  statue  of  him  in  the  Place  Vert,  by  calling  streets  and 
hotels  after  him,  and  by  placing  the  chair  in  which  he  sat,  wreathed  with 
immortelles,  in  the  Museum,  where  his  works  glow  with  colors  that  seem 
as  fresh  after  two  hundred  years  as  if  they  had  just  left  the  artist's  palette. 
Rubens  was  certainly  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  the  world  has  ever  pro- 
duced, and  the  rapidity  with  which  his  pictures  were  painted — if  we  may 
believe  tradition — is  almost  as  wonderful  as  the  pictures  themselves.  It  is 
said  that  the  altar-piece  at  St.  Jacques  was  begun  and  finished  in  six 
weeks !  I  am  not  disposed  to  dispute  this,  for  granting  the  work  to  be  an 
almost  miraculous  performance,  it  is  very  likely  to  have  been  produced  in 
a  miraculously  short  time.  To  such  powers  as  this  man  possessed,  noth- 
ing seems  impossible  in  the  form  of  pictorial  achievement.  I  had  seen  the 
two  grand  pictures  in  the  cathedral  some  years  ago,  and  I  am  happy  to  say 
I  am  more  able  to  appreciate  them  now  than  I  was  then.  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds tells  us  that  when  he  visited  Antwerp  seventy  years  ago,  he  lost  much 
time  in  going  from  church  to  church  in  quest  of  Rubens'  pictures.  We 
were  more  fortunate,  for  though  some  of  the  finest  are  in  the  positions  in 
which  Reynolds  saw  them,  great  numbers  have  been  moved  and  now  form 
part  of  the  national  collection  in  the  Museum." 

The  following  gives  my  impressions  of  our  journey  to 
Rotterdam  en  route  to  the  Hague: 

"  I  will  now  continue  my  account  of  our  wanderings.  We  left  Antwerp 
with  regret,  and  having  the  choice  of  going  to  Rotterdam,  en  route  to  the 
Hague,  either  by  sea  or  by  canal,  we  preferred  the  latter.  The  trip,  all 
the  way  from  Antwerp,  is  the  pleasantest  that  can  be  imagined ;  there  is 
the  usual  nuisance  of  the  examination  of  luggage  on  the  frontier  of  Hol- 
land as  a  slight  drawback.  The  steamer  stopped  opposite  a  dirty-looking 
fishing  town,  and  a  couple  of  important  functionaries  belonging  to  the  ex- 
cise came  on  board  and  made  themselves  as  unpleasant  as  possible.  How- 
ever, they  found  nothing  contraband,  so  we  were  allowed  to  proceed  on 
our  journey.  Dordrecht  —  or,  as  it  is  commonly  called,  Dort  —  was  the 
birthplace  and  residence  of  Cuyp,  one  of  the  great  luminaries  of  the  Dutch 
school.  The  scenes  of  most  of  his  works  lay  by  and  on  the  rivers  and 
canals  about  Dort,  and  after  seeing  so  many  of  this  great  painter's  works, 
it  was  quite  curious  to  meet  at  almost  every  turn  of  the  river  some  spot 
that  seemed  familiar  to  us ;  and  it  was  not  till  we  remembered  that  we 
were  in  the  locality  of  so  many  of  Cuyp's  pictures  that  we  could  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  had  not  often  visited  the  places  that  we  now  saw  for  the 
first  time." 

Here  end  the  extracts  from  the  letters  written  when  the 
impressions  they  record  were  fresh.  I  think  I  must  have 


PICTURE-SEEING   IN    BELGIUM   AND    HOLLAND.          123 

written  much  about  the  Hague,  so  rich  is  that  place  in 
pictorial  treasures.  If  I  did,  the  letter  has  been  lost;  but 
as  I  have  visited  the  Hague  since,  and  my  notes  on  the 
pictures  may  be  found  elsewhere  in  these  reminiscences, 
the  lost  letter  is  of  no  consequence. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SERVICE  OF  ART  IN  DETECTION  OF  CRIME. 

STONE  painted  charming  pictures,  which  were  engraved 
and  very  popular;  notably  a  pair,  "The  First  Appeal" 
and  "The  Last  Appeal."  Love  was  the  theme  of  these 
and  of  most  of  Stone's  work.  The  two  "  Appeals  "  were 
bought  by  Mr.  Baring,  and  were  injured  in  a  fire  that 
took  place  at  that  gentleman's  house.  "The  Last  Ap- 
peal "  caught  fire  first,  and  much  of  the  paint  was  burned 
from  the  canvas,  "  The  First  Appeal "  being  but  slightly 
injured.  On  hearing  of  the  fate  that  had  befallen  the 
pictures,  Douglas  Jerrold  is  reported  to  have  said,  "  Dear 
me,  '  The  Last  Appeal '  was  '  the  first  to  peel.' " 

Stone  was  one  of  the  Dickens  Theatrical  Company,  and 
played  many  good  .parts  admirably;  his  handsome  face 
and  fine  figure,  conspicuous  off  the  stage,  were  of  great 
service  to  him  upon  it.  He  told  me  of  one  of  Jerrold's 
sarcastic  sayings,  perfectly  indifferent  to  its  application  to 
himself.  Stone  had  replaced  his  chimney-pot  hat  by  a 
travelling-cap,  during  one  of  the  hot  and  dusty  journeys 
of  the  company  to  Manchester.  The  hat  was  so  placed  as 
to  make  it  the  receptacle  of  much  dust  and  dirt. 

"Look here,"  he  said  to  Jerrold,  "my  hat  is  half  full  of 
rubbish." 

"  It  is  used  to  that,"  was  the  reply. 

I  never  sought  Jerrold's  acquaintance.  I  was  afraid 
of  him,  for  I  dreaded  his  tongue.  I  was  mistaken,  no 
doubt,  in  estimating  his  character  by  the  seeming  brutal- 
ity of  some  of  the  sarcasms  he  uttered,  for  those  who  knew 
him  intimately  all  agreed  in  declaring  Jerrold  to  be  one 
of  the  kindest-hearted  men  living.  Compton,  the  actor, 
agreed  in  this,  but  told  me  of  an  instance  of  Jerrold's  ready 
wit,  which,  to  the  ordinary  mind,  scarcely  bears  out  the 


SERVICE    OF   ART   IN   DETECTION   OP   CRIME.  125 

amiable  theory.  Jerrold  was  roving  about  the  West  End 
in  search  of  a  house  that  he  had  been  commissioned  to 
hire  for  the  season  for  a  country  friend.  Compton  met 
and  accompanied  him  into  a  house,  and  in  one  of  the 
rooms  was  a  large  mirror  that  reflected  the  visitor  from 
top  to  toe  : 

"There,"  said  Compton,  pointing  to  his  own  figure, 
"  that's  what  I  call  a  picture." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jerrold,  "  it  only  wants  hanging." 

I  must  now  return  to  Ivy  Cottage,  where  Egg  lived  for 
many  years.  At  the  corner  of  what  is  now  Queen's  Road 
stood  an  inn  called  the  Black  Lion;  from  that  hostelry, 
and  extending  down  the  only  part  of  the  ground  then 
built  upon,  was  a  high  hedge,  which  enclosed  Ivy  Cottage 
and  the  garden  surrounding  it.  The  house  was  very  old 
and  very  picturesque,  and  had  long  been  the  residence 
of  the  eminent  engraver  Reynolds,  known  as  one  of  the 
best  translators  of  his  great  namesake's  works.  Reynolds' 
workroom  became  Egg's  studio;  it  was  approached  through 
the  dining-room,  in  which  so  many  of  my  happiest  even- 
ings were  spent.  Mulready,  whose  art  needs  no  eulogy 
from  me,  became  a  frequent  guest.  It  was  some  time,  how- 
ever, before  he  could  be  induced  to  accept  Egg's  oft- 
repeated  invitations.  I  knew  Mulready  very  well,  and  one 
day  Egg  begged  me  to  try  to  discover  Mulready's  reason 
for  so  constantly  declining  his  invitations. 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  Mulready,  "  I  don't  want  to  meet 
Leech,  who,  I  understand,  constantly  dines  with  you  all." 

"  May  I  ask  why,  sir  ?"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  You  know  the  postage  envelope 
that  I  designed,  and  which  has  been  so  mercilessly  crit- 
icised—  well,  Leech  caricatured  it.  I  don't  mind  a  bit 
about  that;  but  what  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  object  to  is 
the  insult  offered  to  me  by  a  little  bottle  in  the  corner  of 
the  caricature  with  a  leech  in  it.  lie  implies  that  I  am  a 
leech,  a  blood-sucker,  in  respect  of  the  remuneration  I  have 
received  for  my  art  generally,  and  no  doubt,  also,  for  that 
confounded  postal  envelope  in  particular.  Now,  you  know 
that  my  prices  have  never  been  extravagant,"  etc. 

I  was  so  amazed  that  any  one  could  be  ignorant  of 


126  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Leech's  usual  manner  of  signing  his  drawings  that  I  could 
scarcely  find  words  to  reply,  and  still  more  difficult  was  it 
to  refrain  from  annoying  the  old  artist  by  laughing  in  his 
face.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  I  made  the  matter  clear  to 
Mulready,  and  obtained  from  him  an  eager  promise  to  ac- 
cept Egg's  next  invitation.  Leech  was  present  at  the 
dinner  first  attended  by  Mulready,  when  he  heard  with 
amused  astonishment,  from  Mulready  himself,  of  his  mis- 
understanding of  the  leech  in  the  bottle.  The  two  artists 
became  great  friends. 

Mark  Lemon,  then  editor  of  Punch,  was  a  constant 
guest  at  Egg's  dinners.  He  was  occasionally  accompa- 
nied by  a  friend  whose  society  was  delightful  until  he  had 
taken  the  quantity  of  wine  that  usually  makes  ordinary 
people  jovial;  he  then  became  quarrelsome,  unless  Dickens 
happened  to  be  a  guest,  when  the  august  presence  gen- 
erally saved  Egg's  wine,  and  ourselves  from  unpleasant- 
ness. 

Lemon  always  watched  the  approach  of  inebriety,  and 

on  one  occasion  he  said  to  me  :  "  Look  at  B ,  he  is 

trying  to  peel  an  apple  with  the  nutcrackers;  so  I  shall 
have  to  carry  him  off  very  soon." 

When  Hans  Christian  Andersen  was  staying  with  Dick- 
ens, Lemon  was  invited  to  meet  the  celebrated  Dane  at 
dinner;  and  on  the  occasion  Lemon  was  more  than  usually 
entertaining,  so  much  so  as  to  cause  Andersen  to  say  : 
"  Ah,  Mr.  Lemon,  I  like  you;  you  are  so  full  of  comic." 

At  one  of  Egg's  dinners  Mulready  told  us  of  an  advent- 
ure with  a  highwayman  in  nearly  the  following  words  : 

"  I  have  lived  somewhere  or  other  in  Bayswater  all  my 
life;  and  when  I  was  a  student  at  Somerset  House,  about 
the  year  1805, 1  always  walked  along  what  is  now  called 
the  Bayswater  Road,  down  to  the  Strand  and  back  again — 
no  omnibuses  in  those  days,  and  hackney-coaches  were  be- 
yond my  pocket.  One  bright  moonlight  night  I  had  pro- 
ceeded about  as  far  as  where  the  town-end  of  Westbourne 
Terrace  is  now — nothing  but  a  country  lane  then;  not  a 
house  of  any  kind  near — when  a  man  came  out  of  the  shad- 
ow thrown  by  a  large  tree-,  and,  producing  a  pistol,  ad- 
dressed me  in  the  usual  robber  fashion  with — 


SERVICE   OP   ART  IN   DETECTION   OF   CRIME.  127 

" '  Your  watch  and  money,  please.' 

"  *  I  am  a  poor  artist,'  said  I.  '  See,  these  are  my  draw- 
ings. I  haven't  got  a  watch;  I  have  never  been  able  to 
buy  one.' 

" '  Your  money  then,  and  be  quick !' 

"  All  this  time  I  was  watching  the  fellow's  face  by  the 
moonlight;  it  was  very  white,  and  I  think  he  was  more 
frightened  than  I  was.  I  gave  him  all  the  silver  I  had 
about  me;  he  then  said  'Good-night'  civilly  enough,  and 
started  off  towards  London. 

"I  made  the  best  of  my  way  home,  and  before  I  went 
to  bed  I  drew  the  man's  face  very  carefully,  and  very  like 
him,  as  the  sequel  will  prove.  The  next  morning  I  went 
to  Bow  Street  with  my  drawing,  in  the  hope  that  it  might 
be  recognized  by  the  officers  there,  as  being  like  some  one 
known  to  them;  but  no.  Several  of  them  examined  it 
carefully,  and  attentively  listened  to  my  story;  but  the 
face,  they  said,  was  new  to  them. 

" '  If  you  will  leave  the  likeness  here,  sir,'  said  the  chief 
'  runner,'  '  we  may  perhaps  come  across  the  person  it  rep- 
resents.' 

"That  event  very  soon  happened;  for,  if  my  memory 
serves  me,  a  fortnight  had  scarcely  passed  before  I  had  a 
call  from  the  Bow  Street  officer,  who  told  me  he  believed 
my  friend  was  caught;  'could  I  go  with  him  at  once?  he 
had  a  coach  at  the  door.'  We  rumbled  away  to  a  watch- 
house  somewhere  near  Southwark  Bridge.  We  entered 
the  room,  and  found  a  man  dressed  like  a  sailor  toasting 
a  red  herring  over  the  fire.  He  turned  at  the  noise  made 
by  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  I  recognized  my  thief.  I 
walked  up  to  him  and  said: 

"  '  How  do  you  do  ?' 

"'Pretty  well,  thank  you,  sir.  Shall  be  better  when  I 
have  put  this  herring  out  of  the  way.' 

"  'Ah  !  if  you  had  confined  yourself  to  putting  herrings 
out  of  the  way  it  would  have  been  better  for  you,'  said  the 
officer. 

" '  Oh,  gammon  !  I  am  innocent  of  that,'  replied  the 
sailor. 

" '  What  is  he  supposed  to  have  done  now  ?'  said  I. 


128  MY  AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

" « Why,  sir,  only  murdering  the  toll-keeper  on  South- 
wark  Bridge  and  robbing  tlus  place.' 

"  '  Do  you  remember  me  ?'  said  I. 

" '  No,  sir ;  I  never  saw  you  before.' 

" '  What !  not  on  a  moonlight  night  in  the  Oxford 
Road?' 

" '  Couldn't  have  been  me,  sir — never  was  in  the  Oxford 
Road  in  my  life.' 

"The  murder  was  proved  as  easily  as  I  could  have 
proved  my  charge  against  the  man,  and  he  was  hanged." 

Mulready  was  fond  of  attending  trials  of  great  criminals. 
He  showed  me  drawings  of  many  whose  crimes  and  names 
are  forgotten.  I  think  it  was  about  1824  when  Mr.  Will- 
iam Weare  was  murdered  by  Thurtell.  The  circumstances 
connected  with  that  crime  are  so  well  known  as  to  render 
any  recapitulation  of  them  by  me  unnecessary.  Mulready 
was  in  court  during  the  trial,  when  he  drew  likenesses  of 
Thurtell  and  his  accomplices  Hunt  and  Probert,  and  found 
his  sketch-book  serviceable  for  a  strange  purpose. 

A  portion  of  Weare's  skull  had  been  broken  by  Thur- 
tell's  pistol  into  several  small  pieces,  which  the  surgeon, 
who  was  giving  evidence,  vainly  tried  to  piece  together, 
so  as  to  fit  them  into  that  part  of  the  skull  that  had  es- 
caped fracture.  Seeing  that  the  surgeon's  nervousness 
rendered  him  quite  incapable  of  obeying  the  judge's  order, 
Mulready  offered  his  services;  and  on  the  back  of  his 
sketch-book  he  fitted  together  the  pieces  of  bone  "  as  you 
would  a  puzzle  " — he  said  to  me — and  handed  them  to  the 
jury.  Thurtell  was  hanged,  and  his  body  consigned  to 
the  surgeons.  We  had  casts  which  had  been  taken  from 
different  parts  of  him  at  Sass's  school,  to  help  us  in  our 
anatomical  studies.  All  new  students  were  introduced 
to  Thurtell's  eyelashes,  which  had  adhered  to  the  plaster 
when  the  cast  was  taken,  our  practice  being  to  rub  the 
new-comer's  nose  into  them. 

I  may  give  one  more  instance  of  the  service  art  has 
been  in  detecting  crime.  My  friend  O'Neil,  in  passing  a 
public-house  opposite  Kensington  Church,  was  robbed  of 
his  watch.  He  was  ascertaining  the  time  by  gas-light, 
when  a  man  snatched  it  from  him  after  a  very  short  strug- 


SERVICE    OP   ART   IN   DETECTION    OP    CRIME.  129 

gle,  sprang  into  a  gig  that  was  standing  at  the  door,  and 
drove  off.  The  time  for  observation  was  very  short,  but 
it  was  long  enough  to  enable  O'Neil  to  fix  the  man's  face 
in  his  mind,  and  also  upon  paper  when  he  got  home. 

The  police  were  presented  with  the  copy,  and  requested 
to  look  out  for  the  original;  who  was  soon  after  arrested 
and  committed  for  trial.  O'Neil's  drawing  was  produced, 
and  considered,  together  with  his  sworn  recognition,  suffi- 
cient proof  of  the  man's  guilt,  in  spite  of  a  very  able  de- 
fence by  his  counsel,  who  ridiculed  the  drawing  mercilessly, 
declaring  it  was  as  much  like  Julius  Csesar  as  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar. 

"  The  man  was  convicted,"  said  O'Neil,  "  and  the  sen- 
tence was  no  sooner  passed  than  there  came  a  message 
from  that  impudent  barrister  asking  me  to  let  him  keep 
the  drawing,  as  he  considered  it  such  a  capital  likeness  of 
the  man." 

It  was  possible  to  see  into  Ivy  Cottage  from  the  top  of 
an  omnibus,  or  any  vehicle  higher  than  the  hedge  that 
separated  the  house  from  the  Queen's  Road;  and  it  was 
also  easy  to  see  tempting  objects  to  thieves,  for  the  side- 
board in  the  dining-room,  with  much  valuable  silver  upon 
it,  was  plainly  visible.  Whether  Egg's  riches  were  dis- 
covered in  the  way  I  have  pointed  out  or  not,  was  never 
known;  but  one  night  the  house  was  burglariously  entered, 
and  silver  of  the  value  of  more  than  a  hundred  pounds  was 
carried  off.  Egg  made  a  sketch  of  the  scene  that  his  din- 
ing-room presented  on  the  morning  after  the  robbery,  lie 
drew  himself  standing  in  his  dressing-gown,  ruefully  con- 
templating some  heaps  of  salt  which  the  thieves  had  emp- 
tied on  to  his  red-velvet  easy-chair  out  of  the  silver  salt- 
cellars. 
6* 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE  "COMIXG    OF   AGE." 

I  MUST  now  take  leave  of  Ivy  Cottage,  and  return  to 
more  personal  matter.  The  success  that  had  attended  the 
pictures  of  the  "Merry-making"  and  "The  Old  Woman 
Accused  of  Witchcraft "  encouraged  me  to  further  effort 
in  the  direction  of  large  compositions. 

Fear  of  modern-life  subjects  still  possessed  me.  The 
hat  and  trousers  pictures  that  I  had  seen  attempted  had 
all  been  dismal  failures;  and  I  felt  sure,  or  thought  I  did, 
that  unless  a  subject  of  tremendous  human  interest  could 
be  found — such  an  interest  as  should  make  the  spectator 
forget  the  dresses  of  the  actors  in  it — modern  life  was  im- 
possible; and  as  no  such  subject  presented  itself,  I  took 
refuge  in  bygone  times  ;  and,  during  my  seaside  holiday 
in  1848,1  made  a  sketch  for  a  picture  to  be  called  "Com- 
ing of  Age,"  the  period  being  about  that  of  Elizabeth. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  the  quadrangle  of  an  old  English 
mansion.  On  steps  leading  to  the  house  stands  the  young 
heir,  listening  to  an  address  of  congratulation  read  by  an 
old  man,  who  may  be  parish  clerk.  Groups  of  villagers, 
tenants,  and  others  surround  the  reader,  several  of  whom 
bring  gifts.  An  armorer  presents  a  helmet  decked  with 
flowers;  a  falconer's  boy  is  in  charge  of  two  dogs  (deer 
and  blood  hounds) ;  an  old  woman,  who  may  have  been 
the  young  lord's  nurse,  with  clasped  hands  invokes  a  bless- 
ing upon  him;  and  in  the  background  peasants  and  neigh- 
bors are  regaling  on  an  ox  roasted  whole,  that  affords  a 
satisfactory  piece  de  resistance.  Some  noble  relatives  of 
the  young  heir  stand  behind  him. 

My  authorities  for  the  background  were  Hever  Castle, 
and  Heslington  Hall-,  near  York.  This  picture  has  been 
well  engraved,  and  therefore  may  be  so  familiar  to  my 
reader  as  to  make  further  description  of  it  needless. 


TOE  "COMING  OF  AGE."  131 

After  the  much  greater  difficulties  of  finding  appropriate 
models,  costume  is  one  of  the  most  troublesome  details 
that  a  painter  has  to  contend  with.  Many  visits  to  the 
Print-room  of  the  British  Museum  may  be  paid  in  vain. 
The  authorities  are  difficult  to  find,  and  when  found,  and 
the  masquerade-shop  is  rummaged,  only  to  discover  tinsel 
and  theatrical  absurdities  in  the  shape  of  dresses  that  no 
human  creature  ever  wore  at  any  time,  except  on  the 
boards  of  a  minor  theatre,  the  artist's  trouble  may  be 
imagined.  In  these  days  there  are  persons  learned  in  an- 
cient dress,  whose  assistance  to  the  painter  is  very  valua- 
ble, and  to  be  acquired  at  a  reasonable  price  ;  but  when 
the  "  Coming  of  Age "  was  painted  no  such  advantage 
existed,  and  the  dresses  for  my  picture  had  to  be  made 
from  the  best  authorities  I  could  find.  I  was  so  fortunate 
as  to  see  an  ox  roasted  whole — a  ceremony  that  was  ad- 
vertised to  take  place  at  the  opening  of  a  cattle-market  at 
Islington. 

I  think  neither  sight  nor  smell  were  altogether  pleasant, 
and  the  company  was  doubtful.  I  stood  on  a  bench,  from 
which  I  could  sketch  the  huge  roast,  and  at  my  feet  stood 
a  youth  of  somewhat  criminal  aspect.  He  was  occupied 
innocently  enough,  when  two  men  made  their  way  through 
the  crowd,  one  of  whom  seized  the  lad's  hands,  while  the 
other  instantly  handcuffed  him.  I  can  hear  now  the  click 
of  the  handcuffs  and  the  lad's  "  Wot's  this  for  ?"  and  the 
thief-takers'  reply  :  "  You  know  what  it's  for,  and  you 
come  along." 

I  find  by  my  diary  that  the  "Coming  of  Age  "  was  be- 
gun on  one  of  the  last  days  in  September,  1848,  and  fin- 
ished in  April,  1849;  and  if  some  of  my  young  student 
friends  could  see  my  diaries  for  the  last  five-and-forty 
years,  they  would  see  a  record  of  incessant  work — no  day, 
literally,  without  a  line — that  I  do  believe  would  surprise 
them.  My  work  has  never  been  interrupted,  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say,  by  illness,  and  I  never  allowed  it  to  be  inter- 
rupted by  anything  else. 

In  my  early  days  I  worked  on  Sundays — following  the 
example  of  those  about  me — in  spite  of  the  remonstrances 
of  my  good  mother,  who  used  every  argument  she  could 


132  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

think  of  to  prevent  my  persisting  in  doing  what  she  knew 
to  be  wicked;  and  being  fully  persuaded  that  even  world- 
ly success  could  never  attend  such  doings,  she  finished  a 
homily  one  day  by  telling  me  that  if  I  "  persisted  in  work- 
ing on  the  Sabbath,  I  should  never  be  worth  a  farthing  as 
long  as  I  lived." 

In  reply  I  said:  "My  dear  mother, I  don't  defend  work- 
ing on  Sunday  for  a  moment;  but  with  respect  to  the 
curse  of  poverty  following  such  doings,  you  must  remem- 
ber Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  always  painted  on  Sundays,  and 
he  died  worth  seventy-three  thousand  pounds  in  the  three 
per  cents." 

"  That  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it,"  replied  my 
mother. 

This  has  always  struck  me  as  a  delightful  example  of 
the  logical  faculty  in  the  female  mind. 

In  the  production  of  a  work  of  art,  friendly  or  un- 
friendly criticism  is  of  great  value,  but  few  advantages 
are  more  difficult  to  secure.  Men  paint  in  various  styles, 
and  the  ordinary  habit  is  for  one's  critic  to  be  unable  to 
identify  himself  with  the  intention  of  the  friend  whose 
picture  he  has  to  criticise.  He  cannot  help  you  along  the 
road  you  have  chosen,  because  his  own  course  of  treat- 
ment would  have  been  altogether  different.  Hence,  some 
of  the  greatest  artists  I  have  known  have  been  useless  as 
critics ;  while  other  and  very  inferior  painters,  having 
both  inclination  and  power  to  place  themselves,  as  it  were, 
on  one's  own  standpoint,  have  been  of  infinite  service. 
There  are  two  kinds  of  critics  :  one  may  be  too  good-nat- 
ured, and  the  other  too  severe — I  have  gained  and  greatly 
suffered  by  the  latter.  I  always  know  when  I  have  been 
successful  by  the  savage  way  in  which  my  friend  attacks 
me.  All  lay  criticism  is,  in  my  opinion,  almost  useless. 
There  are  exceptions,  no  doubt;  and  I  recall  one  as  I 
write,  in  the  person  of  one  of  the  smallest  men  conceiva- 
ble— Peter  Powell.  Peter  was  the  intimate  friend  of 
Washington  Irving,  Stewart  Newton,  R.A.,  and  C.  R. 
Leslie,  R.A.  In  the  autobiography  of  the  last-named 
justice  is  done  to  the  humorous  side  of  Powell's  charac- 
ter ;  his  critical  powers  are  not  mentioned. 


TUB  "COMING  OP  AGE."  133 

I  made  Peter's  acquaintance  while  I  was  painting  the 
"  Coming  of  Age."  He  often  saw  the  picture,  and  it  was 
the  better  for  his  visits.  As  he  sat  behind  me  one  day,  he 
told  the  following  story.  I  should  premise  that  Powell 
was  a  clerk  in  the  War  Office,  and  during  his  usual  holi- 
day he  joined  a  party  of  friends  on  an  excursion  to  Switz- 
erland, via  the  Rhine,  leaving  his  mother  (with  whom, 
being  unmarried,  he  constantly  resided)  at  his  house  in 
London.  From  all  I  heard,  the  affection  that  commonly 
exists  between  son  and  mother  was  on  Powell's  side  of 
extraordinary  tenderness;  and  though  what  I  am  about 
to  relate  may  seem  to  prove  that  a  man  of  remarkable 
common-sense  may  be  subject  to  superstitious  terrors,  the 
simple  way  in  which  Powell  told  his  story,  and  my  knowl- 
edge of  his  perfect  truthfulness,  leave  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  the  events  happened  as  he  related  them. 

The  party  had  reached  Basle,  having  fully  enjoyed  the 
beauties  of  the  Rhine;  and,  after  a  very  fatiguing  day, 
Powell  retired  to  bed  and  was  immediately  sound  asleep. 
How  long  he  had  slept  he  had  no  means  of  knowing,  when 
he  was  awoke  by  what  appeared  to  be  the  sound  of  his 
own  name.  At  first  he  gave  a  dream  credit  for  an  illu- 
sion, and  was  composing  himself  for  a  second  sleep,  when, 
as  it  seemed,  close  to  his  ear,  his  name  was  repeated,  and 
in  the  unmistakable  voice  of  his  mother.  Further  sleep 
was  now  out  of  the  question.  Powell  rose  from  his  bed, 
struck  a  match,  and  by  its  light  he  ascertained  the  precise 
time — twenty-one  minutes  past  three  !  He  lighted  candles, 
dressed,  and  tried  to  read  till  daylight.  There  were  no 
telegraphs,  nor  indeed  railways,  at  the  time  of  these 
events;  and  the  uncertainty  of  the  travellers'  movements 
made  communication  by  post  almost  impossible.  Though 
Powell  had  hitherto  laughed  at  the  stories  of  the  dead 
speaking  to  the  living,  to  announce  the  time  of  their  de- 
parture from  this  world,  his  experience  of  this  night 
might  prove  the  truth  of  what  is  so  commonly  believed : 
and  so  completely  did  this  idea  possess  him  that  further 
participation  in  a  pleasure-trip  was  out  of  the  question, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  earnest  entreaties  of  his  friends — armed 
with  all  the  usual  arguments  used  in  such  cases — he  deter- 


134  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

mined  to  return  home  as  fast  as  post-horses  could  take  him, 
and  learn  the  worst. 

"  Never  in  my  life,"  said  Powell,  "  did  I  suffer  so  terri- 
bly. My  mother  had  always  been  more  than  a  mother  to 
me — she  was  the  cleverest,  best  of  women.  I  thought  the 
journey  would  never  end;  but  end  it  did  at  last,  and  with 
a  beating  heart  I  went  towards  my  home,  henceforth  to 
be  desolate.  The  servant  started  and  turned  pale  when 
she  opened  the  door;  I  could  not  speak,  but  rushed  past 
her,  and,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  I  flung  open  the 
sitting-room  door,  and  found  my  mother  reading  the  '  Pil- 
grim's Progress.'  She  started  like  the  servant,  but  with- 
out turning  pale ;  on  the  contrary,  I  never  saw  her  looking 
better,  as  she  took  me  in  her  arms  and  said: 

"  '  Good  gracious,  Peter  !  what  has  brought  you  back 
so  soon  ?  and  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  are 
you  crying  for  ?  Do  tell  me  what  has  brought  you  back 
before  your  holiday  is  half  over  !' 

" '  You  did  !'  said  I,  when  I  could  recover  myself;  'you 
called  me  !' 

"  And  many  a  laugh  the  dear  old  lady  and  I  had  over 
my  spoiled  holiday,  and  my  stupidity  in  spoiling  it.  But, 
mind  you,  nothing  will  ever  convince  me  that  1  was  asleep, 
or  dreaming,  or  suffering  from  indigestion,  or  that  I  did 
not  distinctly  hear  my  mother's  voice." 

Admission  to  the  ranks  of  the  Royal  Academy  carries 
with  it  many  advantages.  Among  the  most  valuable,  and 
sometimes  the  most  abused,  is  the  right  to  "  the  line  "  for 
eight  works;  and  though  that  privilege  has  been  curtailed 
in  the  present  day  by  a  sort  of  arrangement  that  no  mem- 
ber shall  claim  to  have  more  than  four  pictures  conspicu- 
ously placed,  certain  favored  individuals — sometimes  the 
least  deserving — are  permitted  to  ignore  the  salutary  reg- 
ulation and  parade  their  enfeebled  powers,  to  the  injury 
of  the  exhibition  and  to  their  own  discomfiture.  In  my 
early  days,  the  associates  were  seldom  allowed  to  exhibit 
in  the  Large  Room  at  all,  and  scarcely  ever  given  more 
than  one  place  upon  the  line;  nearly  all  my  own  smaller 
pictures,  including  "  Sir  Roger  do  Coverley  and  the  Spec- 
tator," "The  Good-natured  Man" — now  in  the  Sheep- 


THE  "COMING  OP  AGE."  135 

shanks  Gallery — and  many  others,  were  hung  near  the 
floor,  or  in  dark  and  secluded  corners.  The  "  Coming  of 
Age  "  was  very  kindly  placed  in  one  of  the  much-coveted 
angles  of  the  Middle  Room;  the  Press  notices,  then  eager- 
ly read  by  me,  were  on  the  whole  favorable.  Thackeray, 
advocating  the  more  frequent  illustration  of  modern  life, 
asked,  in  a  review  of  the  exhibition,  "  Why,  when  a  man 
comes  of  age,  should  it  be  thought  desirable  that  he  should 
come  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  ?"  and  another  critic  sug- 
gested that  it  would  have  been  better  if  such  an  ill-drawn, 
idiotic  youth  as  Mr.  Frith  represents  had  been  cut  off  in 
infancy,  and  so  been  prevented  from  "  coming  of  age  " 
at  all. 

Between  the  production  of  such  large  compositions  as 
the  "  Merry-making,"  "  Witchcraft,"  and  "  Coming  of 
Age "  pictures,  many  small  works  were  painted,  and 
among  them  was  one  called  "A  Gleaner,"  a  half-length 
of  a  girl  carrying  a  sheaf  of  corn.  I  cannot  claim  the 
entire  design  of  this  little  study,  for  it  was  arranged  part- 
ly by  Frederick  Tayler,  the  then  president  of  the  Water- 
Color  Society,  who,  being  ambitious  to  try  his  hand  in  oil- 
colors,  had  come  to  me  for  some  friendly  lessons  in  a  part 
of  the  art  with  which  he  was  unfamiliar.  Though  ham- 
pered by  a  strange  method,  he  succeeded  in  producing  a 
charming  study,  which  was  immediately  bought  by  Mr. 
Jacob  Bell;  and  if  the  great  demand  for  his  water-color 
drawings  would  have  allowed  him  time  for  different  prac- 
tice in  oil,  I  have  no  doubt  that  my  old  friend — my  very 
old  friend,  for  he  survives  at  the  ripe  age  of  eighty-seven 
— would  have  rivalled  his  own  excellence  in  water-colors. 

My  little  "  Gleaner  "  became  the  property  of  a  Mr.  G , 

of  Birmingham,  who  dealt  in  wearing-apparel  as  well  as 
pictures.  My  price,  thirty  guineas,  was  cheerfully  paid. 
Before  the  picture  left  me  it  was  seen  by  a  Mr.  Birt,  who 
was  forming  a  collection  of  small  pictures,  and  by  his  sug- 
gestion I  repeated  the  subject,  but  changing  the  half-length 
into  a  representation  of  the  entire  figure,  with  a  background 
of  Scottish  mountain  scenery.  Before  beginning  the  sec- 
ond picture  I  wrote  to  Mr.  G ,  asking  his  permission, 

as  I  felt  bound  to  do,  and  he  replied  that  he  would  consent 


136  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

on  the  condition  of  his  having  the  refusal  of  the  proposed 
picture.  The  background  became  of  such  importance  in 
the  new  work  that  I  feared  to  undertake  it,  and  I  proposed 
to  Creswick  that  he  should  assist;  to  this  he  consented  for 
"a  consideration."  The  picture  was  finished;  Mr.  Birt 
saw  it,  and  offered  what  appeared  to  me  the  monstrous 
sum  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  for  it.  After  many 
struggles  between  my  modesty  and  my  avarice,  and  after 
hearing  from  many  friends  that  I  should  be  a  bigger  fool 
than  I  looked — which  I  was  assured  was  impossible — if  I 

asked  Mr.  G a  lower  price  than  another  was  willing 

to  pay,  I  accordingly  wrote  to  Mr.  G ,  and  received 

the  following  reply: 

"DEAR  SIR, — If  I  read  your  note  correctly,  and  you  ask  the  sum  of  150 
guineas  for  the  picture  of  the  '  Gleaner,'  I  beg  to  decline  it. 

"Yours,  etc.,  J.  G ." 

I  was  not  surprised,  and  Mr.  Birt  was  pleased — or  he 
said  he  was — when  he  paid  the  largest  price  I  had  then 

received  for  so  small  a  work.  I  can  imagine  Mr.  G 's 

disappointment  if  he  heard  years  afterwards  that  he  had 
neglected  a  good  investment;  for  at  the  sale  of  Mr.  Birt's 
pictures  the  "  Gleaner "  fetched  seven  hundred  guineas. 
This  picture,  after  passing  through  several  hands,  is  now 
in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Fender,  in  Arlington  Street. 

I  hope  in  noticing  strange  instances  of  the  caprices  of 
value  of  my  own  works,  I  shall  not  lay  myself  open  to  a 
charge  of  vainglorious  boasting;  nor  will  I  allow  the  fear 
of  such  an  accusation  to  prevent  my  naming  any  instance 
that  may  occur  to  me  which  I  think  may  illustrate  the 
great  demand  for  certain  kinds  of  art,  the  production  of 
others'  as  well  as  of  my  own  hard-worked  brush. 

It  was  during  the  varnishing-days  of  the  year  in  which 
the  "Coming  of  Age"  was  exhibited  that  I  first  saw  Sir 
William  Allan,  the  intimate  friend  of  Walter  Scott  and 
Wilkie.  At  luncheon-time  a  little  gray  old  gentleman 
made  his  appearance,  and  was  received  with  cheers. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  said  I  to  Maclise. 

"  That's  Wullie  Allan,"  was  the  reply. 

Wilkie  had  been  dead  some  years,  and  there  was  much 


THE  "COMING  OF  AGE."  137 

talk  of  him  and  his  early  life  in  London,  deeply  interest- 
ing to  me.  A  great  deal  of  it  has  escaped  my  memory, 
but  the  following  anecdote,  told  by  Mulready,  may  enter- 
tain others  as  it  did  me: 

After  the  death  of  Wilkie's  father — a  Scottish  minister 
— his  mother  and  sister  came  to  London  and  charged 
themselves  with  the  care  of  Wilkie's  home  in  Norton 
Street,  where  the  eminent  painter  was  producing  year  by 
year  the  works  on  which  bis  great  reputation  will  mainly 
rest.  Mulready  was  his  fellow-student — sometimes  his 
model,  as  in  the  "Duncan  Gray" — and  so  intimate  as  to 
be  a  constant  guest  in  Norton  Street.  Mrs.  Wilkie's 
health  began  to  fail  from  the  time  of  her  arrival  in  Lon- 
don, and  she  became  at  last  so  seriously  ill  that  recovery 
seemed  almost  hopeless.  Mulready  was  constant  in  sym- 
pathy with  Wilkie's  anxiety,  calling  most  days  to  make 
inquiry.  Norton  Street — now,  I  think,  called  by  another 
name — was  then  so  quiet  that  study  could  be  pursued  with 
comfort.  Street-musicians  found  no  encouragement,  and 
pretty  generally  tried  their  fortune  elsewhere.  Great  was 
Mulready's  surprise  then,  on  entering  the  long  street  one 
afternoon,  to  hear  the  distant  sound  of  bagpipes.  Strange, 
for  not  a  piper  was  to  be  seen ;  and  stranger  still,  the  sound 
grew  louder  and  louder  as  Mulready  approached  Wilkie's 
door,  when  it  became  evident  that  the  performer  was  play- 
ing inside  the  house.  Mulready  knocked,  not  without  the 
fear  that  his  knocking  might  be  drowned  by  the  music, 
and  Wilkie  opened  the  door.  Speech  was  impossible,  and 
Mulready  was  taken  into  the  parlor,  where  a  Highlander 
was  playing  for  dear  life.  When  the  music  ceased  Wilkie 
said :  "  Well,  ye  see  the  mother  is  not  so  well  to-day.  She 
said  she  would  like  to  hear  the  music  again,  for  she  is  aye 
fond  of  the  pipes." 

My  second  picture  in  the  Exhibition  of  1849  was  taken 
from  "  Don  Quixote,"  and  represented  the  immortal  Don 
at  dinner  with  the  duke  and  duchess.  Don  Quixote's  hesi- 
tation to  yield  to  the  duke's  invitation  to  take  the  head  of 
the  table — a  position  always  offered  to  an  honored  guest 
— drew  from  Sancho  a  story  which  he  thought  appropriate 
to  the  occasion. 


138  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"Then  thus"  (quoth  Sancho),  "both  of  them  being 
ready  to  sit  down,  the  husbandman  contended  with  the 
gentleman  not  to  sit  uppermost,  and  he  with  the  other 
that  he  should,  as  meaning  to  command  in  his  own  house; 
but  the  husbandman,  presuming  to  be  mannerly  and  cour- 
teous, never  would,  till  the  gentleman,  very  moody,  lay- 
ing hands  upon  him,  made  him  sit  down  perforce,  saying, 
'  Sit  down,  you  thresher !  for  wheresoe'er  I  sit,  that  shall 
be  the  table's  end  to  thee.'  And  now  you  have  my  tale; 
and,  truly,  I  believe  it  was  brought  in  here  pretty  well  to 
the  purpose.  Don  Quixote's  face  was  in  a  thousand  col- 
ors, that  jaspered  on  his  brow." — Don  Quixote,  Part  II., 
chap.  xxxi. 

This  picture  was  a  commission  from  Mr.  Frederic  Huth, 
in  whose  house  in  Palace  Gardens  it  still  remains,  sur- 
rounded by  companions  of  great  excellence;  notably  a 
magnificent  Constable,  an  exquisite  Wilkie,  and  good 
pictures  by  many  of  our  best  painters. 

It  is  always  agreeable  to  be  able  to  note  instances  of 
liberality,  as  well  as  intelligent  critical  supervision,  during 
the  execution  of  a  work;  and  in  my  commission  from  Mr. 
Huth  I  experienced  both.  When  I  produced  my  sketch 
my  employer  asked  me  to  name  a  price  for  the  picture 
that  would  be  satisfactory  to  me,  and  on  my  hesitating  he 
named  one  himself,  much  in  excess  of  what  I  should  have 
demanded.  To  name  a  price  for  a  picture  before  it  is  be- 
gun is  always  difficult,  and  even  dangerous,  to  one  party 
concerned  or  the  other.  Wilkie  used  to  say,  "No  man 
can  tell  how  a  picture  will  turn  out.  You  should  never 
name  your  price  till  your  work  is  done;  it  may  prove  to 
be  worth  more  than  you  imagined — or  less.  It  is  just  im- 
possible to  work  up  to  a  precise  sum.  Besides,  ye  ought 
to  be  thinking  of  money  as  little  as  possible."  I  think  I 
succeeded  in  some  respects  very  well  in  my  "  Quixote " 
picture;  the  Sancho  and  the  Chaplain  being  thought  suc- 
cessful, the  Don  less  so,  from  the  extreme — almost  insur- 
mountable— difficulty  of  giving  to  his  figure  the  dignity 
that  his  appearance,  the  lank  jaw  and  attenuated  form, 
are  so  apt  to  destroy;  and  it  is  only  in  such  hands  as 
Leslie's  that  the  difficulty  disappears.  On  the  whole, 


THE  "COMING  OP  AGE."  139 

my  reputation  was  advanced  by  the  exhibition  of  the  two 
pictures. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  painted,  in  conjunction 
with  my  friend  Ansdell,  a  picture  called  "The  Keeper's 
Daughter."  The  subject  was  simple  enough — a  pretty 
girl  feeding  dogs  in  a  Highland  cottage — Ansdell  being 
responsible  for  the  animals,  I  for  the  figure  and  the  rest 
of  the  picture.  H.  T.  Ryall,  to  whom  we  owed  the  com- 
mission for  "  The  Keeper's  Daughter,"  was  an  engraver 
of  the  first  rank;  his  finest  work,  perhaps,  being  a  transla- 
tion of  Wilkie's  "  Columbus."  The  print  from  our  joint 
performance  was  successful,  and  the  picture,  having  served 
its  purpose,  was  disposed  of  by  its  proprietor;  under  what 
circumstances  I  never  knew.  A  few  years  after  the  pict- 
ure had  disappeared,  I  was  taken  by  a  friend  to  see  a  large 

collection  belonging  to  a  Mr.  F ,  a  retired  tanner,  who 

had  a  mansion  at  Blackheath.  I  was  warned  that  Mr. 

F had  been  the  victim  of  a  certain  dealer,  from  whom 

nearly  all  his  pictures  had  been  bought  at  a  cost  of  many 
thousand  pounds,  and  that  some  of  them  were  spurious. 
Mr.  F received  my  friend  and  me  with  great  polite- 
ness, and  before  he  showed  us  his  collection,  he  so  seri- 
ously begged  for  our  candid  opinion  as  to  give  rise  to  the 
idea  in  my  mind  that,  from  some  cause  or  other,  doubts  of 
the  pictures'  excellence  or  originality,  or  both,  had  taken 
root  in  his  mind.  Every  room  was  filled  with  pictures, 
and  the  staircases  were  lined  with  them.  One  of  the  first 
to  be  noticed  was  of  an  Italian  boy,  with  hurdy-gurdy  and 
white  mice,  in  which  the  hand  of  a  member  of  the  British 
Artists  in  Suffolk  Street  was  easily  traced,  and  I  named 
him. 

"Oh,  no  !"  said  Mr.  F ;  "that  is  by  Eastlake,  your 

president,  you  know."  Anything  less  like  Eastlake's  work 
it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine.  "I  paid  a  large  sum 
for  that  picture,  because  it  is  a  subject  not  often  attempted 
by  Eastlake." 

The  vilest  daubs  were  shown  us  as  genuine  Wilkies,  Tur- 
ners, Websters,  etc.  Two  red  herrings  hanging  against  a 
realistic  deal-board  were  by  Turner;  a  Holy  Family  by 
Webster,  and  so  on  ;  indeed,  all  the  pictures  were  as 


140  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

curiously  unlike,  in  the  subjects  peculiar  to  each  artist, 
as  they  were  in  manner  of  production.  After  going 
through  a  series  of  terrible  examples  of  bad  art,  Mr. 
F said: 

"Now  I  will  show  you  a  picture  by  an  unknown  painter; 
I  bought  it  in  Wardour  Street  as  a  Landseer.  Here  it  is; 
you  shall  judge  for  yourselves.  I  know  it  is  not  a  Land- 
seer,  and  I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  that,  great  as 
Landseer  is,  he  never  equalled  my  '  Daniel  in  the  Lions' 
Den.'"  So  saying,  our  collector  uncovered  a  picture  so 
vile  as  to  make  us  wonder  that  ignorance  could  be  so  great 

as  to  find  merit  in  such  a  thing.  "  There,"  said  Mr.  F , 

"I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  that  Landseer  never 
painted  such  a  picture  as  that." 

"I  agree  with  you,  sir,"  said  my  friend;  "Landseer 
could  not  paint  such  a  picture  to  save  his  life." 

We  saw  many  Landseers,  every  one  spurious. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  F ,  pointing  to  a  mahogany  box, 

"I  have  here  a  Landseer  which  I  only  show  to  particular 
friends."  He  unlocked  the  case,  and  lo !  my  "  Keeper's 
Daughter !"  "  I  gave  twelve  hundred  guineas  for  that, 
and  I  consider  I  got  it  at  a  bargain." 

This  was  too  much.  Silence  would  have  been  crim- 
inal. 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "you  have  been  cheated;  that  picture  is 
the  joint  production  of  myself  and  Mr.  Ansdell." 

"  Oh,  come  now — you  don't  mean  to  say  that !"  in  ac- 
cents of  alarm. 

"Indeed,  I  must  say  it;  and,  after  much  consideration, 
I  feel  it  to  be  a  duty  to  tell  you  that  scarcely  a  picture  in 
your  house  is  painted  by  the  artist  whose  name  is  attached 
to  it." 

"  Why,  I  have  got  a  warranty  with  lots  of  them  !" 

"  Get  your  money  back  then,  if  the  law  will  give  it  to 
you,"  said  I. 

Mr.  F was  silent  for  some  moments;  he  then  said: 

"All  the  Landseers,  do  you  say?" 

"Yes,"  said  I;  "all." 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  Landseer  would  come  here  and  con- 
firm that?"  said  Mr.  F . 


THE  "COMING  OF  AGE."  141 

"  I  am  sure  he  would;  and  if  you  desire  it,  I  will  speak 
to  him  immediately  on  the  matter." 

To  end  the  story,  Landseer  went  to  Blackheath,  accom- 
panied by  his  brother  Charles,  when  he  endorsed  our  opin- 
ions, of  course  so  far  as  his  own  supposititious  doings  were 
concerned.  But,  after  all,  there  was  a  Landseer  in  the  col- 
lection, in  the  shape  of  an  old  lion,  the  size  of  life,  which 
was  used  as  a  chimney-board  at  Charles  Landseer's  house, 
and  painted  by  that  artist,  but  elevated  in  the  Blackheath 
collection  into  a  splendid  position  on  the  walls,  with  the- 
advantage  of  a  superb  frame  and  a  curtain  before  it.  Mr. 

F had  not  confined  his  admiration  for  art  entirely  to 

modern  specimens.  A  few  ancient  pictures,  or  what  he 
thought  such,  had  a  room  to  themselves.  Among  the  rest 
were  three  pictures — a  Quentin  Matsys,  a  Vandyke,  and  a 
Wouvermans.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  merit  and  origi- 
nality in  works  of  art  are  matters  of  opinion,  more  or  less 
valuable  according  to  the  taste  and  knowledge  of  those 
who  are  for  the  moment  in  the  judgment-seat;  but  it 
sometimes  happens  that  opinion  may  be  backed  up  by  in- 
controvertible proofs.  Mr.  F 's  Quentin  Matsys,  for 

instance,  contained  several  figures  dressed  in  the  costume 
of  George  II.,  and  as  the  great  Dutch  painter  lived  some 
hundreds  of  years  before  George  IL,  the  picture  could  not 
be  his  work.  The  Vandyke  represented  Charles  II.  in 

about  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  age.  Mr.  F produced 

documents  tracing  the  descent  of  the  portrait  from  the 
time  of  Vandyke,  with  the  names  of  the  noble  owners 
whose  different  collections  it  had  adorned. 

"  I  fear,  sir,"  said  I,  "  that  I  can  prove  to  you  that  it  is 
impossible  that  Vandyke  can  have  painted  that  pict- 
ure." 

"  Can  you  ?"  said  Mr.  F ,  who  had  become  a  little 

irritable.  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  do  it." 

"You  shall,"  said  I.  "Now  tell  me,  how  old  does 
Charles  look  in  that  picture  ?" 

"How  old?"  said  Mr.  F ;  "what  on  earth  can  that 

have  to  do  with  it?  How  old?  well,  I  should  say  pretty 
nearly  fifty." 

"  Just  so,"  said  I.     "  Well,  then,  as  Vandyke  died  when 


142  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Charles  II.  was  twelve  years  old,  he  could  not  have  paint- 
ed the  king  when  he  was  fifty." 

The  Wouvermans  was  a  bad  modern  copy  of  a  well- 
known  picture  in  the  National  Gallery.  Mr.  F as- 
sured us  that  all  good  judges  considered  his  picture  the 
original,  and  that  in  the  National  Collection  a  copy. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

SUBJECTS    FROM    GOLDSMITH,  SMOLLETT,  AND    MOLIERE. 

THE  Sheepshanks  Collection,  now  at  South  Kensington, 
was  founded  by  one  of  a  class  of  collectors  extinct  at  this 
time.  Mr.  Sheepshanks  was  a  sleeping  partner  in  a  cloth 
firm  at  Leeds.  His  London  residence  was  at  Rutland 
Gate,  where,  in  a  charming  gallery,  the  greater  part  of 
his  collection  was  displayed.  Like  all  people  possessed  of 
art  treasures,  Mr.  Sheepshanks  was  annoyed  by  the  impor- 
tunity of  strangers,  whose  requests  to  see  his  house  and 
his  pictures  were  always  refused,  and  not  always  in  the 
language  of  Lord  Chesterfield.  Being  a  bachelor,  and, 
though  early  in  life,  a  very  hospitable  one,  the  expense  of 
his  household  could  not  have  been  great,  nor  could  the 
prices  of  his  pictures,  for  he  told  me  that  he  never  pos- 
sessed an  income  of  more  than  fifteen  hundred  a  year;  and 
out  of  that,  to  use  his  own  words,  "I  have  always  paid 
my  way,  and  paid  for  my  pictures,  too."  Mr.  Sheep- 
shanks may,  I  think,  be  considered  to  have  been  some- 
what irascible.  The  sight  of  a  card — even  if  it  bore  the 
name  of  a  friend — offered  by  strangers  as  a  ticket  of  ad- 
mission was  treated  with  contempt.  I  happened  to  be  in 
the  gallery  with  him  one  day,  when  his  servant  presented 
the  Duchess  of  -  — 's  card,  accompanied  by  that  of  one  of 
the  most  eminent  R.A.'s. 

"  And  there's  a  lot  of  ladies,"  said  the  girl. 

"Is  Mr. ,"  naming  the  R.A.,  "  with  them  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Then  tell  them  to  go  to  the ;  no,  I  don't  mean 

that.  Say  what  you  like.  Pictures  not  shown.  Say  any- 
thing, only  don't  let  them  in."  He  then  turned  to  me  and 
said,  "  Now,  would  you  believe  it  ?  I've  told  that  man  a 
thousand  times  that  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  his  friends, 


144  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

but  he  must  come  with  them.  How  do  I  know  where  peo- 
ple may  pick  up  other  people's  cards  ?  He  is  as  careless  a 
fellow  as  ever  lived.  He  may  drop  his  address-cards  as 
likely  as  lose  other  things,  as  he  constantly  does." 

When  in  the  humor  Mr.  Sheepshanks  would  name  the 
prices  that  his  pictures  had  cost  him.  I  am  afraid  to  trust 
to  my  memory  for  many  instances;  but  I  can  well  recol- 
lect the  astonishment  with  which  I  heard  of  the  incredi- 
bly small  sums  for  which  he  had  acquired  some  of  the 
most  wonderful  of  Landseer's  works.  One  of  the  largest 
— "The  Departure  of  the  Highland  Drovers"  —  was  a 
commission  from  the  Duke  of  Bedford  for  £500.  When 
the  picture  was  finished  the  duke  said  he  was  veiy  poor, 
and  if  Landseer  could  find  another  purchaser  he  (the  noble 
patron)  would  be  glad  to  resign  "so  beautiful  a  work." 
Another  neglect  of  a  good  investment;  for,  undoubtedly, 
if  "  The  Departure  of  the  Highland  Drovers  "  were  sold 
now  it  would  bring  quite  as  many  thousands  as  the  hun- 
dreds for  which  the  duke  might  have  purchased  it.  Mr. 
Sheepshanks  always  chuckled  when  he  told  how,  having 
heard  of  the  duke's  wish,  he  took  immediate  steps  to  grat- 
ify him.  The  exquisite  "  Jack  in  Office,"  "  The  Shepherd's 
Chief  Mourner,"  "The  Tethered  Ram,"  etc.,  were  all 
bought  for  ludicrously  small  prices;  and  any  exclamation 
from  a  bystander  to  that  effect  was  sure  to  elicit  from 
Mr.  Sheepshanks  a  somewhat  petulant  explanation :  "  Well, 
I  always  give  what  is  asked  for  a  picture,  or  I  don't  buy 
it  at  all;  never  beat  a  man  down  in  my  life.  Never  sold 
a  picture,  and  I  never  will;  and  if  what  I  hear  of  the  prices 
that  you  gentlemen  are  getting  now  is  true,  I  can't  pay 
them,  so  my  picture-buying  days  are  over." 

And  over  they  were  in  1850,  when  I  had  the  honor  of 
receiving  Mr.  Sheepshanks'  last  commission,  and  the  pleas- 
ure of  executing  it  in  the  form  of  the  "  Scene  from  Gold- 
smith's '  Good-natured  Man,' "  now  at  the  South  Kensing- 
ton Museum.  As  this  picture  can  be  seen  by  anybody,  I 
may  be  spared  the  somewhat  unpleasant  task  of  talking 
about  my  own  work.  The  picture  represents  Mr.  Honey- 
wood  introducing 'the  two  bailiffs  to  Miss  Richland  (his 
fiancee)  as  his  friends,  and  vainly  endeavoring  to  make 


SUBJECTS    FROM    GOLDSMITH,  SMOLLETT,  ETC.          145 

them  conduct  themselves  as  gentlemen.  The  following 
is  the  dialogue,  in  Goldsmith's  words: 

"HoNEVwocD.  Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr. 
Twitch  and  Mr.  Flanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit  without 
ceremony." 

"Miss  HIGHLAND.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men  be? 
I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must  be  so  (aside)." 

The  year  1850  found  me  embarked  on  another  large 
composition — "Hogarth  before  the  Governor  of  Calais." 
I  forget  in  what  book  I  found  the  anecdote  of  Hogarth's 
adventure  at  Calais,  where  he  was  arrested  as  a  spy  in  the 
act  of  sketching  the  "  Gate*  at  Calais  "  for  the  background 
of  his  famous  picture  of  that  name;  but  the  truth  of  the 
arrest  is  well  established,  for  he  has  represented  himself 
as  sketching  the  gate  with  the  hand  of  'a  French  soldier 
touching  his  shoulder.  He  was  taken  before  the  governor, 
who  informed  him  that  "  if  peace  had  not  been  signed  be- 
tween France  and  England  a  few  days  previously  he  would 
have  been  hanged  on  the  ramparts." 

My  diary  for  1850  presents  the  usual  record  of  foggy 
days  and  disappointing  models  ;  in  short,  difficulties  with- 
out number  more  or  less  successfully  battled  with.  As  I 
could  not  have  Hogarth  to  sit  for  me,  I  had  to  keep  a  bright 
lookout  for  some  one  resembling  him.  After  much  search- 
ing and  delay  I  found  a  suitable  model,  not  unlike  the  great 
moralist  in  body,  but  in  mind  as  opposite  as  the  poles.  For 
the  French  soldiers  I  was  fortunate,  for  I  discovered  two 
individuals  whose  political  views  were  so  much  at  variance 
with  the  established  government  at  that  time  in  power  in 
France  as  to  necessitate  a  precipitate  flight  from  that  coun- 
try to  this,  and  whose  faces  matched  their  principles,  and 
suited  me  exactly.  I  must  acknowledge  that  they  pre- 
dicted pretty  accurately  the  career  of  Napoleon  III.,  than 
whom  (according  to  them)  no  such  villain  ever  existed. 
"A  republic — no!  Monarchy — thousand  thunders,  no!  A 
general  division  of  property  and  begin  again — that,  mon- 
sieur, is  the  panacea,  the  only  substantial  equality  and  fra- 
ternity." I  painted  the  governor's  clerk  from  an  old  man 
who  assured  me  that  his  grandfather  was  at  the  execution 
of  Charles  I.  He  made  the  matter  clear  to  me  at  the  time, 
7 


146  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

but  I  have  since  found  a  difficulty  in  working  out  the  prob- 
lem; the  old  model  was  nearly  ninety  in  1850.  He  be- 
longed to  a  very  long-lived  family,  whose  representatives 
must  have  been  remarkable  in  many  ways,  for  they  were 
always  born  when  their  fathers  were  at  least  eighty  years 
old.  Granting  the  truth  of  this,  it  is  just  possible  that  a 
boy  of  ten  (my  model's  grandad)  might  have  sat  on  his 
father's  shoulders,  so  that  he  could  look  over  the  heads  of 
the  soldiers  who  surrounded  Charles's  scaffold,  and  have 
seen  that  sovereign's  obstinate  head  severed  from  his  body. 
I  leave  my  readers  to  work  out  this  little  sum. 

I  have  said  elsewhere  that  associates'  pictures  were  sel- 
dom if  ever  allowed  to  enter  the  Holy  of  Holies  of  the 
academicians — the  "Large  Room"  in  Trafalgar  Square. 
Before  "Hogarth"  and  "Louis  XVI.  in  the  Temple"— 
Ward's  chef-d'oeuvre — were  hung  in  that  envied  locality, 
I  can  only  remember  one  example  to  the  contrary — Red- 
grave's "  Poor  Governess."  If  the  veteran  R.A.'s  could 
have  heard  the  ribald  comments  of  some  of  the  associates 
on  what  we  called  their  dog-in-the-manger  monopoly,  how 
we  declared  the  "  Big  Room  "  to  be  fast  becoming  a  hos- 
pital for  incurables,  some  of  us  would  have  been  longer  in 
becoming  academicians  than  we  were.  I  can  well  remem- 
ber my  difficulty  in  keeping  my  temper  when  I  was  told 
by  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  incompetent  of  the  R.A.'s 
that  a  pretty  storm  had  been  raised  by  my  picture  being, 
"  most  improperly  "  placed  in  the  Large  Room.  "  Hogarth  " 
was  a  commission  from  a  Lancashire  worthy,  who  repudi- 
ated his  order,  and  the  picture  was  transferred  to  a  firm  of 
publishers,  by  whom  an  engraving  from  it  was  produced, 
without  much  success  either  as  a  print  or  a  publication. 

Smollett's  "Roderick  Random"  suggested  one  of  the 
best  of  my  smaller  productions;  it  was  called  "A  Stage- 
coach Adventure,"  and  represented  the  interior  of  a  lum- 
bering vehicle  that  required  three  days  to  go  from  York 
to  London,  and  was  named  "  the  York  and  London  fast 
coach,  the  Highflyer."  The  passengers  represented  were 
a  Quaker  and  his  family,  a  British  officer,  and  a  lady  with 
her  daughter.  One  great  difficulty  of  the  subject  arose 
from  the  necessity  for  removing  one  side  of  the  coach,  in 


SUBJECTS    FROM    GOLDSMITH,  SMOLLETT,   ETC.          147 

order  to  show  the  occupants,  thus  causing  the  coach  to 
resemble  too  much,  perhaps,  the  interior  of  a  small  room. 
Through  the  coach-window  appeared  the  masked  face  of 
an  ugly  highwayman,  who,  with  pistol  thrust  forward, 
made  his  usual  demand.  The  Quakeress  screams  and 
throws  herself  back  in  the  coach;  the  Quaker  hides  his 
pocket-book  under  the  cushions;  the  mother  of  the  young 
lady — the  vis-d-vis  of  the  Quakeress — offers  her  purse  to 
the  robber;  and  the  young  lady  falls,  fainting,  on  to  the 
shoulder  of  the  captain,  who  is  paralyzed  with  fright. 
The  motto  from  "Macbeth"  which  I  quoted  in  the  cata- 
logue, "  What !  a  soldier,  and  afeard  !"  seemed  very  ap- 
propriate. 

Among  my  friendly  critics  on  many  occasions  was 
George  Cruikshank,  and  it  was  on  discussing  the  "  Stage- 
coach Adventure"  that  he  told  me  of  one  of  his  own. 
When  a  little  boy  he  was  placed  at  a  school  at  Edgeware, 
and  on  one  occasion,  after  spending  his  Christmas  holidays 
at  home,  he  was  returning  in  a  post-chaise  in  charge  of 
his  father,  when  they  were  stopped  by  a  highwayman. 
Among  other  Christmas  gifts  which  the  boy  was  taking 
to  school  was  a  long  tin  trumpet.  Cruikshank's  father, 
alarmed  by  the  galloping  of  a  horse,  had  looked  from  the 
window  of  the  chaise  and  pretty  well  assured  himself  of 
the  character  of  the  rider  ;  he  then  turned  to  the  boy  and 
said  :  "  Now,  George,  the  moment  we  are  stopped  you 
poke  that,  trumpet  broad  end  out  of  the  window."  The 
boy  did  as  he  was  bid.  The  highwayman  mistook  the 
trumpet  for  a  blunderbuss,  turned,  and  rode  back  as  rapid- 
ly as  he  had  come.  I  have  the  illustrious  artist's  word  for 
what  will  appear  to  most  people  incredible,  namely,  that 
this  incident  took  place  in  what  is  now  called  the  Edge- 
ware  Road.  I  cannot  resist  relating  another  adventure  of 
Cruikshank's,  for  the  truth  of  which  I  think  I  can  safely 
vouch.  For  many  years  before  his  death  Cruikshank  was 
not  only  "  a  total  abstainer  "  himself,  but  a  persistent  ad- 
vocate of  that  principle  by  pen  and  pencil  on  all  occasions 
— in  season  and  out  of  season.  His  wonderful  series  of 
designs  called  "  The  Bottle,"  and  his  picture  in  the  Nation- 
al Gallery  called  the  "  Worship  of  Bacchus,"  are  sufficient 


148  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

proofs  of  his  advocacy  by  the  pencil.  His  many  pam- 
phlets speak  for  his  pen  ;  while  his  Exeter  Hall  speeches 
and  chair-taking  have  again  and  again  proved  the  sincerity 
of  his  convictions.  It  was  very  late  one  night  after  at- 
tending a  temperance  meeting,  that,  on  letting  himself  into 
his  house  in  the  Hampstead  Road,  Cruikshank  saw  the 
figure  of  a  man  carrying  a  bundle  disappear  through  a 
door  leading  into  his  garden.  All  the  household  were 
asleep.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  character  of  the 
man  with  the  bundle,  who  was  clambering  over  the  wall 
into  the  neighboring  garden,  when  Cruikshank  caught  him 
by  the  leg.  The  artist  was  a  powerful  man,  which  the 
burglar  soon  discovered,  as  he  resigned  himself  into  the 
hands  of  his  captor.  Fortunately  a  policeman  happened 
to  be  passing  the  house  ;  the  thief  was  given  into  his 
charge,  and  the  three  walked  off  towards  the  station.  I 
have  said  that  Cruikshank  not  merely  never  lost  an  op- 
portunity of  enforcing  his  principles,  but  he  constantly 
made  one  ;  and  on  the  walk  to  the  police  station  he  lectured 
the  burglar  somewhat  as  follows  :  "  Now,  my  friend,  this 
is  a  sad  position  to  find  yourself  in.  It's  the  drink,  my 
friend,  the  drink.  Ah!  I  can  smell  it.  Now  look  at  me," 
pausing  for  a  moment  under  a  gaslight.  "  You  see  before 
you  a  man  who  for  the  last  twenty  years  has  taken  nothing 
to  drink  stronger  than  water." 

The  burglar  looked  up  at  the  ai'tist  and  growled  :  "  I 
wish  to  God  I  had  known  that ;  I  would  have  knocked 
your  d — d  old  head  off  !" 

"The  fool  thought  I  had  weakened  myself  by  leaving 
off  alcoholic  drinks.  The  reverse — the  very  reverse  is  the 
fact ;  for  let  me  tell  you,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And  so  dear  old 
George  would  lecture  as  long — or  longer — than  he  could 
get  a  listener. 

Cruikshank  labored  under  a  strange  delusion  regarding 
the  works  of  Dickens  and  Ainsworth.  I  heard  him  an- 
nounce to  a  large  company  assembled  at  dinner  at  Glas- 
gow that  he  was  the  writer  of  "  Oliver  Twist."  Dickens, 
he  said,  just  gave  parts  of  it  a  little  "literary  touching 
up;"  but  he,  Cruikshank,  supplied  all  the  incidents  as  well 
as  the  illustrations.  "  Mind,  sir,"  ho  said  to  me,  "  I  had 


SUBJECTS   FROM    GOLDSMITH,  SMOLLETT,  ETC.  149 

nothing  to  do  with  the  ugly  name  Dickens  would  insist 
on  giving  the  boy.  I  wanted  him  called  Frank  Steadfast." 
He  also  wrote  the  "  Tower  of  London,"  erroneously  cred- 
ited to  Ainsworth,  as  well  as  other  works  commonly  un- 
derstood to  have  been  written  by  that  author.  My  in- 
timacy with  Cruikshank  enables  me  to  declare  that  I  do 
not  believe  he  would  be  guilty  of  the  least  deviation  from 
truth,  and  to  this  day  I  can  see  no  way  of  accounting  for 
what  was  a  most  absurd  delusion.  Dickens  was  very  fond 
of  Cruikshank,  but  he  found  him  occasionally  troublesome  ; 
he  would  see,  or  fancy  he  saw,  a  resemblance  to  an  old 
lady  friend  of  his  in  one  of  the  characters  in  "  Chuzzlewit " 
or  "Nickleby,"  or  some  other  of  the  serials  then  in  course 
of  publication,  when  he  would  say  to  Dickens,  "  I  say, 
look  here  :  Mrs.  So-and-so  has  been  to  me  about " — Mrs. 
Nickleby,  perhaps — "  and  she  says  you  are  taking  her  off. 
I  wish  you  would  just  alter  it  a  little  ;  the  poor  old  girl  is 
quite  distressed,  you  know,"  etc.,  etc.  This  Dickens  told 
me,  and  added  :  "  Just  imagine  what  my  life  would  be 
if  George  was  making  the  drawings  for '  Dombey '  instead 
of  Brown,  who  does  what  I  wish  and  never  sees  resem- 
blances that  don't  exist !" 

I  now  turn  with  reluctance  to  my  own  doings.  I  am 
indebted  to  lithography  for  three  of  the  most  faithful 
transcripts  that  have  been  made  from  pictures  of  mine. 
They  are  the  work  of  an  old  student  friend,  Maguire, 
whose  life  as  a  lithographer  was  cut  short  by  photography, 
a  science,  I  suppose  I  must  call  it,  which  bids  fair,  in  tho 
modern  shape  of  photogravure,  to  destroy  line  and  all 
other  styles  of  engraving  as  effectually  as  it  has  put  a 
stop  to  lithography.  When  Charles  Landseer,  who  made 
better  puns  than  pictures,  said  of  photography  on  its  first 
appearance  that  it  was  a  foe-to-graphic  art,  he  little 
thought  how  completely  his  prophecy  would  be  realized. 
I  have  suffered  so  dreadfully  from  translations  of  my 
pictures  by  photogravure  that  I  hold  the  method  in  ab- 
solute abhorrence,  though  I  admit  that  I  have  seen  satis- 
factory reproductions  of  other  works  by  this  process. 

My  second  subject  from  Moli&re,  also  taken  from  the 
"  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme  "  (which,  with  the  banquet-scene 


150  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

from  that  play  and  "  Sir  Roger  do  Coverley  and  the  Spec- 
tator," were  those  referred  to  as  so  beautifully  litho- 
graphed by  Maguire),  represented  the  reception  of  the 
belle  Marquise  and  the  Marquise  Dorante  by  the  Bour- 
geois, previous  to  the  banquet  so  inopportunely  inter- 
rupted by  Madame  Jourdain.  He  is  shown  as  going 
through  his  three  bows  ;  and,  finding  himself  after  the 
second  a  little  too  near  the  lady,  he  is  saying,  with  back 
still  bent :  "  Un  peu  plus  loin  pour  la  troisi&me,  madame." 
A  lackey  is  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  through  which 
preparations  for  the  banquet  may  be  seen.  I  received  a 
hundred  and  sixty  pounds  for  this  picture,  but  at  what 
price  it  was  acquired  by  Mr.  Newsham,  of  Preston,  I  have 
no  means  of  knowing.  At  the  death  of  that  gentleman 
the  picture  passed,  with  the  whole  of  his  fine  collection, 
into  the  possession  of  the  Corporation  of  Preston,  as  a  free 
gift  to  the  people  of  that  town.  At  the  South  Kensington 
Museum  there  are  small  copies  of  the  Moliere  pictures  in 
the  Jones  Collection. 

A  beautiful  girl,  to  whom  I  did  but  scant  justice  in  my 
picture  from  Moliere,  was  one  of  three  sisters  who  were 
all  favorite  models  at  that  time.  The  career  of  the  proto- 
type of  the  belle  Marquise  was  not  a  little  singular.  She 
disappeared  from  artistic  circles  with  the  disregard,  com- 
mon to  her  sisterhood,  for  the  necessities  of  those  who 
had  relied  on  being  able  to  finish  their  work  from  the 
model  who  had  sat  for  its  commencement.  Inquiry  was 
fruitless.  She  had  left  her  lodgings,  and  no  trace  behind 
her.  I  found  myself  in  the  stalls  of  the  Haymarket 
Theatre  at  one  of  the  last  appearances  of  Macready,  and 
in  taking  the  usual  indolent  survey  of  the  dress-circle 
through  an  opera-glass,  I  was  stopped  in  the  front  row  by 
the  sight  of  a  face  that  I  knew  so  well,  and  an  eye  that 
when  it  caught  mine  indulged  itself  in  something  very 
like  a  wink.  Sure  enough,  it  was  the  belle  Marquise  ;  but 
instead  of  the  homely  cotton  in  which  she  was  formerly 
dressed,  the  latest  and  most  extravagant  fashion  had  been 
called  into  play.  Diamonds  glittered  on  neck,  arms,  and 
head — she  was  transformed  indeed.  After  a  sidelong 
glance  at  a  distinguished-looking  middle-aged  man  at  her 


SUBJECTS   FROM   GOLDSMITH,  SMOLLETT,  ETC.          151 

side,  the  Marquise  bestowed  a  little  nod  and  Bmilc  upon 
me,  and  then  resumed  the  aristocratic  bearing  that  became 
her  so  admirably.  I  dare  say  I  shall  surprise  my  readers 
when  I  tell  them  that  the  noble-looking  middle-aged  man 
was  indeed  a  nobleman  who  had  married  our  model.  I 
discovered  the  name  of  the  bold  aristocrat  afterwards,  and 

had  the  pleasure  of  reading  the  name  of  Lady among 

those  of  the  happy  people  who  were  presented  at  court. 

In  speaking  of  Macready,  I  am  reminded  that  it  was 
about  this  time  that  great  actor  quitted  the  stage.  In  the 
early  part  of  these  pages  I  have  said  that  no  such  acting 
as  Macready's  King  John  and  Charles  Kemble's  Faulcon- 
bridge  can  be  seen  on  the  present  stage  ;  and  while  main- 
taining that  opinion  as  regards  a  special  play,  and  the  re- 
markable combination  of  genius  in  the  representation  of 
it,  I  must  not  allow  myself  to  forget  that  we  have  a  trage- 
dian who,  as  an  "all-round  man,"  is  a  far  greater  actor 
than  Macready.  In  a  few  characters  such  as  Virginius, 
William  Tell,  Rob  Roy,  and  some  others,  Macready  was,  I 
think,  unapproachable  ;  but  to  compare  his  Hamlet  or  Shy- 
lock  with  Irving's  rendering  of  these  characters  would  be 
disastrous  for  Macready.  That  Macready  had  multi- 
tudes of  admirers  and  "  troops  of  friends  "  was  manifested 
by  the  attendance  of  about  six  hundred  men  who  gathered 
round  him  on  the  occasion  of  a  banquet — inaugurated 
chiefly  by  Dickens — given  to  him  on  his  retirement  from 
the  stage.  The  company  was  composed  of  representatives, 
more  or  less  eminent,  of  science,  literature,  and  art,  to  say 
nothing  of  numbers  of  Macready- worshippers  from  various 
ranks  of  life.  In  a  letter  to  my  mother,  under  date  March, 
1851, 1  record  my  impressions  in  the  following  extract : 

"  I  assisted,  as  ihc  French  say,  at  the  Macready  banquet  last  night.  A 
great  many  of  my  friends  were  going,  so  I  joined  them.  We  had  capital 
places  close  to  Bulwcr  Lytton — who  was  in  the  chair — provided  for  us  by 
Dickens,  who  had  the  management  of  the  affair.  He  made  an  admirable 
speech  ;  Thackeray  also  spoke  well  and  very  humorously.  Macready,  who 
speaks  other  people's  words  much  better  than  his  own,  made  rather  a 
halting  business  of  his  oration.  In  returning  thanks  lie  said  his  heart  was 
fuller  than  the  glass  which  he  held — that  might  easily  have  been  the  case, 
for  the  glass  which  he  held  was  empty !  I  was  close  to  Charles  Kemblc, 
who  spoke  right  well.  I  never  saw  such  a  sensation  as  when  he  rose  to 


152  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

reply  to  the  drinking  of  his  health.  I  feel  sure  that  most  of  the  people 
there  thought  that  the  Kemble  line  had  passed  away  years  ago  ;  and  when 
the  old  man  rose,  feeble  and  bent,  but  with  the  old  stately  bearing,  and  in 
the  sounding  and  dignified,  though  somewhat  shrill,  voice  peculiar  to  the 
Kembles,  responded  most  happily  to  the  toast,  the  row  was  deafening. 
Every  man  rose — glasses,  napkins,  even  decanters,  were  shaken  and  waved 
about ;  the  company  seemed  to  have  taken  leave  of  their  senses. 

"  My  dinner  cost  me  a  guinea  and  a  headache,  besides  a  fight,  or  nearly 
one,  for  my  hat  and  coat.  Just  fancy  six  hundred  people  all  struggling  at 
the  same  time  at  a  small  table  to  get  their  hats  and  go  away.  The  waiters 
were  all  drunk,  and  that  happy  condition  was  no  assistance  to  them  in 
their  efforts  to  distribute  the  hats  to  their  owners ;  indeed,  to  judge  from 
the  maudlin  way  they  tumbled  and  reeled  about,  one  might  fancy  that  they 
had  been  shipwrecked  on  a  sea  of  hats  and  coats,  and  were  in  despair  of 
ever  reaching  dry  land.  Every  gentleman  had  been  furnished  with  a 
ticket  or  number  for  his  hat,  and  if  you  can  imagine  three  or  four  hun- 
dred people  screaming  out  different  numbers,  and  the  tipsy  waiters  smiling 
at  them,  and  in  the  most  soothing  tones  requesting  them  to  have  patience, 
you  will  understand  what  I  had  to  go  through.  As  to  Stone,  the  last  I 
saw  of  him  was  the  upper  part  of  his  body;  he  was  clinging  to  a  pillar 
with  one  arm,  and  holding  out  his  ticket  with  the  other,  kicking  at  the 
same  time  with  both  legs  at  the  people  behind  him.  Stone's  treatment  of 
his  fellow-guests  was  not  agreeable  to  them ;  there  was  a  terrific  row,  a 
few  policemen  made  a  dash  into  the  crowd — Stone  disappeared ;  I  saw  no 
more — and  thus  endeth  the  Macready  banquet." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    HANGING    COMMITTEE. 

I  NOW  approach  the  time  when  the  desire  to  represent 
every-day  life  took  an  irresistible  hold  upon  me.  My  first 
venture  in  modern-life  subjects  took  the  shape  of  a  small 
picture  of  a  mother  and  child.  The  child  was  kneeling, 
saying  its  prayers  in  its  mother's  lap,  with  the  wandering 
attention  so  common  to  children.  The  gray  -  and  -  black 
dress  of  the  mother  and  the  white  night-gown  of  the  child 
made  a  sufficiently  agreeable  arrangement  of  negative  col- 
ors. The  heads  were  characteristic,  though — as  was  af- 
terwards said  in  excuse  for  the  failure  as  a  publication — 
too  like  portraits.  The  picture  was  beautifully  engraved 
by  Stocks ;  but  the  finest  engraving  will  not  avert  failure 
if  the  subject  represented  does  not  satisfy  the  many-head- 
ed, whose  likings  and  dislikings  are  equally  incomprehen- 
sible. A  little  study,  done  from  a  good-looking  girl  who 
was  in  my  service  as  housemaid,  had  a  great  success  as  an 
engraving.  I  painted  the  girl  not  only  in  her  habit  as 
she  lived,  but  in  her  habits  also,  for  she  was  carrying  a 
tray  with  a  bottle  of  wine  on  it.  The  whole  thing  was 
simple  enough.  The  picture  was  bought  by  Jacob  Bell, 
who  —  convinced  that  there  was  what  he  called  "copy- 
right" in  it — succeeded  in  extracting  forty  guineas  from 
a  well-known  publisher,  who,  differing  in  opinion  from 
Well  as  to  the  value  of  the  copyright,  immediately  trans- 
ferred it,  at  a  great  loss,  to  another  and  more  adventurous 
printseller.  Bell  presented  me  with  the  copyright  money, 
and  I  heard  with  pleasure  that  the  picture  was  placed  in 
the  hands  of  Frank  IIoll,  afterwards  A.K.A.,  an  admira- 
ble engraver  and  most  worthy  man.  IIoll  produced  an 
excellent  print  from  the  little  picture.  I  approved  and  it 
was  published,  after  being — without  my  knowledge — chris- 
7* 


154  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

tened  "Sherry,  sir?"  What  a  thorn  in  my  side  did  that 
terrible  title  become !  I  dined  out  frequently,  and  dread- 
ed the  approach  of  the  servant  with  the  sherry,  for  the 
inevitable  "Sherry,  sir?"  rang  in  my  ears,  and  reminded 
my  neighbor  at  table  of  my  crime.  "A  pretty  thing 
enough,  that  servant-girl  of  yours ;  but  how  you  could 
give  her  such  a  vulgar  title  I  can't  think."  This  was 
dinned  into  my  ears  so  frequently  that  I  determined  I 
would  try  to  get  the  obnoxious  words  changed  into  some 
less  objectionable.  I  went  to  the  publisher  and  unbur- 
dened my  mind.  "  Change  the  title  !"  said  he  ;  "  why, 
it's  the  name  that  sells  it.  We  offered  it  before  it  was 
christened,  and  nobody  would  look  at  it ;  now  it  sells  like 
ripe  cherries,  and  it's  the  title  that  does  it." 

Before  devoting  myself  to  more  elaborate  compositions 
from  modern  life  I  determined  to  try  to  realize  a  scene 
that  had  always  struck  me  as  admirably  adapted  to  picto- 
rial representation,  namely,  the  quarrel  of  Pope  and  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  or,  rather,  the  cause  of  the  quar- 
rel, for  it  is  said  that,  in  a  moment  of  passion,  Pope  de- 
clared his  love  for  the  beautiful  Lady  Mary,  who  received 
the  vows  of  the  poet  with  astonishment  that  resolved  it- 
self into  irrepressible  laughter. 

By  any  one  acquainted  with  the  character  of  Pope — 
and  who  is  not?  —  the  fearful  blow  that  such  treatment 
would  be  to  a  man  so  sensitive  may  be  imagined  ;  and  the 
ample  revenge  he  allowed  himself  to  take  in  after-years  be 
somewhat  excused.  Admirers  of  Pope  objected  to  the  sub- 
ject as  placing  the  poet  in  a  humiliating  position.  Leslie, 
I  remember,  spoke  to  me  strongly  on  that  point ;  but  the 
picture  was  done,  and  hanging  on  the  Academy  walls, 
when  the  objectors  opened  fire  ;  so  repentance,  which  I 
confess  I  felt,  came  too  late.  The  truth  was,  I  could  not 
resist  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  two  figures — the  consum- 
ing rage  of  Pope,  contrasted  by  the  cruel  laughter  of  the 
lady.  My  admiration  and  respect  for  Pope  should  per- 
haps have  prevented  me  from  exposing  so  great  a  man  to 
ridicule  and  humiliation.  Mea  culpa!  mea  culpa! 

Of  all  the  authorities,  and  they  were  many,  that  I  con- 
sulted for  the  likeness  of  Pope,  the  bust  by  Roubillac  is 


THE    HANGING    COMMITTEE.  155 

the  only  one  that  conveys  the  man  :  there  he  is  with 
features  worn  by  suffering,  but  showing  the  intellectual 
strength  that  must  have  distinguished  such  a  man.  The 
portrait  by  Jervas  in  the  National  Collection,  though  in- 
teresting as  giving  a  more  or  less  correct  rendering  of  the 
"  shape  and  make "  of  the  man,  conveys  no  idea  to  my 
mind  of  his  intellectual  power.  Reynolds  said  that  no 
man  could  put  more  into  a  picture  than  there  is  in  him- 
self ;  if  that  be  so,  there  was  not  much  in  Jervas,  most  of 
whose  portraits  are  examples  of  what  I  once  heard  a  paint- 
er say  of  a  likeness  of  a  strong-minded  man :  "  The  fel- 
low," meaning  his  brother  artist,  "  has  made  a  likeness  of 
So-and-so,  certainly,  but  he  has  managed  to  knock  out  his 
brains."  There  are  many  so-called  likenesses  of  Lady 
Mary,  but  they  differ  from  each  other  nearly  as  much  as 
do  those  of  her  namesake,  the  Queen  of  Scots.  In  Mr. 
Gibbons'  collection  there  is  a  beautiful  picture  by  Sir 
Joshua  that  is  called  Lady  Mary ;  but  I  doubt  if  the  dates 
will  serve,  for  Sir  Joshua  could  scarcely  have  painted  the 
beloved  of  Pope  in  the  prime  of  her  loveliness.  In  Mr. 
Gibbons'  picture  the  original  could  not  have  exceeded 
her  thirtieth  year,  when  Sir  Joshua  was  a  young  and  un- 
known man. 

In  my  picture  I  fear  I  cannot  claim  much  resemblance 
to  the  beautiful  original,  though  my  lady  is  handsome 
enough  to  be  the  cause  of  love  in  Pope  or  anybody  else. 
An  incident  occurred  in  connection  with  this  picture  that 
is  worth  recording,  as  showing  the  way  artists  are  some- 
times treated  by  their — so-called — patrons.  A  collector, 
of  a  somewhat  vulgar  type,  had  long  desired  me  to  paint 
a  picture  for  him.  I  showed  him  the  sketch,  and,  to  prove 
the  culture  of  the  gentleman,  I  may  mention  the  follow- 
ing fact : 

"  What's  the  subject?"  said  he. 

"Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  and  Pope,"  said  I; 
"  the  point  taken  is  when  Pope  makes  love  to  the  lady, 
who  was  married  at  the  time,  and  she  laughed  at  him." 

"  The  pope  make  love  to  a  married  woman — horrible !" 

"  No,  no,  not  the  pope — Pope  the  poet !" 

"  Well,  it    don't    matter    who    it    was ;    he    shouldn't 


156  MY    AUTOBIOGBAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

make  love  to  a  married  woman,  and  she  done  quite  right 
in  laughing  at  him ;  and  if  I  had  been  her  husband  I 
should — "  etc. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  as  you  don't  like  the  subject,  we 
will  say  no  more  about  it.  I  will  paint  you  something  else." 

"  Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  I  like  to  see  a  woman  laugh 
at  a  man  who  makes  an  ass  of  himself.  I'll  take  it.  What's 
the  figure  ?" 

"  Before  I  name  a  price,"  said  I,  "  I  must  tell  you  that 
there  is  a  condition  attached  to  the  picture  which  must  be 
agreed  to  by  whoever  takes  it ;  and  that  is  that  I  may 
make  a  small  copy  of  it  for  a  friend.  So,  if  you  object  to 
copies,  as  many  people  do,  now  is  the  time  to  say  so." 

The  exact  size  of  the  intended  copy  was  fixed,  the  con- 
dition and  price,  three  hundred  and  fifty  guineas,  agreed 
to  ;  and  in  due  time  the  picture  was  finished  and  highly 
approved  by  my  learned  friend,  who,  I  discovered  after- 
wards, had  never  read  a  line  of  Pope,  or,  indeed,  even 
heard  of  him. 

When  the  exhibition  was  closed  I  wished  to  begin  the 
copy  at  once  ;  but  my  "patron"  begged  to  have  the  pict- 
ure for  a  few  days,  as  he  "  wished  to  show  it  to  some 
*  country  friends.'  "  I  let  it  go,  and  when  I  applied  for  it, 
according  to  agreement,  the  owner  quietly  defied  me,  and 
refused  to  carry  out  an  arrangement  to  which  he  acknowl- 
edged he  had  consented.  He  then  proceeded,  without 
consulting  me,  to  make  terms  with  an  engraver  for  the 
production  of  the  picture  in  mezzotint — a  process  quite 
unsuited  to  it — pocketing  a  hundred  guineas  for  the  copy- 
right. There  are  people  so  amiable  as  to  submit  to  in- 
sult, and  even  injury,  without  complaining.  I  am  not  of 
that  species,  and  my  complaints  were  loud  enough  to 
reach  the  ears  of  my  employer,  who,  to  my  surprise,  made 
his  appearance  one  morning  at  my  house.  I  froze  him  by 
my  reception,  and  declined  to  shake  hands,  to  his  great 
surprise. 

"  I  hear  you  are  annoyed  because  I  can't  allow  you  to 
copy  my  picture,"  he  began. 

"  Did  you  or  did  you  not  consent  to  a  copy  being  made 
when  you  bought  the  picture  ?"  said  I. 


THE    HANGING    COMMITTEE.  157 

"Well,  certainly  I  did;  but  all  my  friends  Bay  that  a 
copy,  ever  so  small,  would  take  away  from  the  value  of 
the  original." 

This  was  too  much,  so  I  tried  to  close  the  interview  by 
asking,  in  ray  loftiest  manner  and  in  stereotyped  phrase, 
"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honor  "  (honor  with  sar- 
casm) "  of  this  visit  ?" 

"  Well,  look  here  "  (I  fear  he  said  "  look  '  ere  "),  "  I 
can't  have  a  copy  done ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what — I  will 
give  you  a  hundred  pounds,  and  you  can  divide  it  with 
the  gent  you  have  to  do  the  copy  for,  as  a  compensation 
like  for  the  copy." 

My  reply  was  conveyed  without  speaking ;  for  I  went 
to  the  door,  opened  it  wide,  pointed  out  to  the  "  gentle- 
man" the  way  he  should  go,  and  he  went  out  without  an- 
other word.  He  died  long  ago.  His  pictures  were  sold 
at  Christie's,  where  "  Pope  and  Lady  Mary "  fetched 
twelve  hundred  guineas.  No  wonder,  when  such  in- 
stances as  the  above — seldom  so  gross — can  be  multiplied 
by  artists  to  any  extent,  that  they  should  prefer  dealing 
with  dealers  who  understand  art  and  artists,  and  can  be 
legally  bound  to  carry  out  (in  rare  cases,  when  moral  bind- 
ing is  not  sufficient)  their  engagements  to  the  letter.  A 
dealer,  it  should  be  remembered,  has  a  variety  of  tastes  to 
satisfy.  What  does  not  please  one  "  client "  may  please 
another;  but  the  "patron"  may  have  a  peculiar  taste,  or 
no  taste  at  all,  may  be  as  full  of  whims  and  fancies  as  ho 
is  of  ignorance,  and  then  the  life  of  the  painter  is  not  a 
happy  one.  For  many  years  I  have  always  sold  my  pict- 
ures to  what  is  called  "  the  trade,"  and  have  invariably 
escaped  the  tribulation  that  so  often  attends  the  patrons' 
patronage. 

I  will  pass  over  many  trifling  pictures,  which  the  pro- 
fane would  call  "  pot-boilers ;"  but,  though  some  few  may 
be  open  to  that  charge,  I  may  speak  of  two  that  received 
as  much  careful  study  at  my  hands  as  anything  that  ever 
passed  through  them.  Both  were  taken  from  Scott,  one 
from  the  "  Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  the  other  from  "  Ken- 
ilworth."  They  were  painted  for  a  man  who  was  another 
disappointing  specimen  of  the  patron — a  grumbling  igno- 


158  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

ramus  who  could  not  see  the  faults  that  really  existed,  but 
discovered  plenty  of  his  own  making.  He  grumbled  dur- 
ing the  progress  of  the  pictures,  and  grumbled  when  they 
were  finished ;  and  when  he  sold  them — as  he  did  very 
shortly — for  a  great  deal  more  than  he  had  paid  for  them, 
he  grumbled  because  he  had  not  got  enough.  These  pict- 
ures are  now  in  the  possession  of  a  man  who  appreciates 
them  beyond  their  merits.  Before  they  reached  their  pres- 
ent owner,  Mr.  Price — whose  gallery  in  Queen  Anne  Street 
is  filled  with  pictures,  and  frequently  on  Monday  evenings 
with  artists,  who  find  the  heartiest  welcome  and  the  best 
cigars,  etc.,  always  awaiting  them — the  pictures  in  ques- 
tion had  passed  through  many  hands,  some  clean  and  some 
very  dirty,  as  I  shall  proceed  to  show.  The  scene  from 
the  "  Bride  of  Lammermoor  "  is  that  in  which  Lady  Ash- 
ton  cuts  the  love-token  from  Lucy's  neck  and  gives  it  back 
to  Ravenswood.  It  happened  that,  the  day  after  spending 
a  very  pleasant  Monday  evening  in  Queen  Anne  Street,  I 
noticed,  in  Christie  and  Manson's  usual  Tuesday's  adver- 
tisement, that  a  picture  by  me  from  the  "  Bride  of  Lam- 
mermoor "  was  to  be  sold.  As  I  had  then  painted  but  one 
picture  from  that  novel — and  that  one  I  had  seen  hanging 
in  Queen  Anne  Street  the  night  before — I  was  puzzled  by 
the  advertisement,  and  determined  to  see  what  the  mean- 
ing of  it  was.  What  was  my  surprise  to  sec  on  Christie's 
walls  a  fac-simile  of  Mr.  Price's  picture,  or  else  the  picture 
itself.  Doubt  as  to  which  it  was  was  put  a  stop  to  by 
Mr.  Price  himself,  who  looked  at  the  picture  with  a  puz- 
zled air,  and  then  looked  at  me  without  any  change  in  his 
expression. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "what  on  earth  does  this  mean?  I 
never  made  a  copy  of  the  picture — not  even  a  sketch  of 
it." 

"  Somebody  has  made  a  copy  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Price;  "must 
have  been  done  on  its  way  to  me  by  one  of  those  rascally 
dealers,  and  sold  as  the  original.  Whose  property  is  it  ?" 

I  found  from  Christie's  the  readiness  always  shown  to 
remove  from  their  walls  whatever  may  have  got  there  un- 
der false  pretences; -and  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the 
spurious  picture  was  disclosed.  I  need  only  allude  to  this 


TUB    HANGING    COMMITTEE.  159 

gentleman  to  say  that  he  was  quite  innocent  of  fraud;  he 
was  assured  the  picture  was  painted  by  me,  and  so  perfect 
was  the  copy,  even  to  the  name  forged  upon  it,  that  I 
should  not  have  doubted  its  authenticity  for  a  moment,  if 
I  had  not  had  such  convincing  proof  to  the  contrary.  I 
requested  to  be  allowed  to  destroy  the  copy,  so  as  to  pre- 
vent its  "betraying  more  men;"  but  the  owner  objected, 
as  the  forgery  was  required  to  enable  the  victim  to  make 
the  man  from  whom  it  was  bought  refund  the  purchase- 
money.  Since  the  attempted  sale  at  Christie's,  I  have 
found  it  necessary  to  repudiate  the  copy  twice. 

I  suppose  no  man's  works  have  been  more  frequently 
pirated  than  those  of  the  eminent  French  painter,  Meis- 
sonier.  I  am  told  that  there  is  a  cupboard  in  that  art- 
ist's studio  for  the  reception  of  such  things ;  and  when 
any  fraudulent  specimen  is  brought  to  that  great  painter 
for  authentication,  it  is,  in  defiance  of  all  opposition,  con- 
signed to  the  cupboard,  and  the  key  turned  upon  it. 
Whether  French  law  would  sanction  such  proceedings  I 
know  not;  but  I  sincerely  wish  it  were  as  legal  in  this 
country  to  destroy  forged  pictures  as  it  is  to  burn  forged 
bills. 

Another  instance  occurs  to  me.  Some  two  or  three 
years  ago,  I  received  a  letter  from  a  person  whose  name  I 
forget,  telling  me  that  he  had  a  picture — naming  the  size — 
of  the  "  Coming  of  Age."  From  the  dimensions  I  knew 
it  must  be  a  copy,  and  as  I  had  made  one  small  copy,  as 
nearly  as  I  could  remember,  about  the  size  named,  I 
thought  it  likely  the  one  inquired  about  might  be  my 
work.  In  the  letter  the  writer  said  he  had  no  doubt  of 
the  originality  of  the  picture;  and  added  that  the  "color- 
ing was  as  fine  as  Titian;"  but  a  stupid  friend  having  ex- 
pressed a  doubt,  he  would  be  obliged,  etc.,  etc.  In  my 
reply  I  said  that  if  he  chose  to  be  at  the  trouble  and  ex- 
pense of  sending  the  picture  to  London,  I  would  solve  his 
friend's  doubts;  but  if  the  "  coloring  was  equal  to  Titian," 
he  might  save  himself  the  trouble  of  submitting  it  to  me, 
as  it  most  certainly  could  not  be  my  work.  The  picture 
arrived,  and  I  found  it  to  be  a  vile  daub  smeared  over  an 
engraving  from  the  original,  in  which  the  painter  had  fol- 


160  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

lowed  his  fancy  in  inventing  a  scheme  of  color  quite  un- 
like the  picture,  and  still  more  unlike  Titian. 

Five-and-twenty  years  ago  the  elections  at  the  Royal 
Academy  took  place  twice  a  year.  Vacancies  in  the 
associate  list  were  filled  up  in  November,  academicians 
were  elected  in  February;  and  it  was  further  enacted  that 
the  death  of  an  R.A.  must  have  taken  place  three  clear 
months  before  the  10th  of  February,  or,  in  default,  the 
vacancy  could  not  be  filled  till  February  in  the  following 
year.  Turner  lingered  for  two  or  three  weeks  into  the 
prescribed  three  months.  I  had  to  wait,  therefore,  nearly 
fifteen  months  for  my  promotion;  thus  serving,  as  Jacob 
did  for  Rachel,  seven  years  for  my  hardly-earned  honor. 
I  am  glad  to  say  that  the  Academy  "  has  changed  all  that," 
as  well  as  other  fossilized  rules  as  much  requiring  abolish- 
ment. A  newly-elected  R.A.  finds  himself  also  elected 
into  offices  for  the  duties  of  which  he  may,  or  may  not,  be 
competent.  He  becomes  a  teacher  in  the  Life  and  Paint- 
ing schools  ;  he  is  at  once  placed  upon  the  council,  and 
finds  himself  a  member  of  the  dreaded  hanging  commit- 
tee. It  is  well  known  that  some  of  our  best  painters  are 
the  worst  teachers.  Landseer  used  to  say,  "  There  is 
nothing  to  teach."  I  heard  one  of  the  most  eminent  acad- 
emicians says — in  answer  to  reproaches  for  his  neglect  in 
not  attending  at  the  Painting  School  — "  What  would 
be  the  good  ?  I  don't  know  anything ;  and  if  I  did  I 
couldn't  communicate  it."  Maclise  said  to  me,  when  as 
a  student  I  was  copying  a  picture  by  Reynolds,  "  I  can't 
teach  you  anything.  1  am  here  to  take  a  lesson  myself." 

It  certainly  appears  to  me  that  the  system  of  what  is 
called  teaching  by  visitors  is  altogether  wrong;  as,  from 
the  varied  and  often  contradictory  character  of  the  advice 
tendered,  the  student  finds  himself  in  a  condition  of  help- 
less bewilderment. 

In  the  days  of  which  I  am  writing,  the  hanging  com- 
mittee was  composed  of  three  men,  whose  duties  consisted 
in  cramming  into  the  small  rooms  in  Trafalgar  Square  as 
many  pictures  as  they  would  hold,  totally,  indeed  neces- 
sarily, regardless  whether  any  of  them  could  be  seen  with- 


THE    HANGING   COMMITTEE.  161 

out  telescopes  or  not.  The  amiable  feeling  that  exists  be- 
tween Scotchmen,  whether  they  are  strangers  to  each  other 
or  not,  is  pretty  universally  acknowledged;  but  should 
there  be  a  sceptic  on  the  subject,  a  glance  at  the  Academy 
walls  when  a  Scotchman  happens  to  be  one  of  the  hangers 
will  dispel  his  doubts,  unless,  as  happened  in  one  memora- 
ble instance,  the  brotherly  feeling  is  indulged  to  such  a 
degree  as  to  be  an  injury  to  those  who  were  not  so  fort- 
unate as  to  have  been  born  north  of  the  Tweed.  Da- 
vid Roberts,  a  thoroughly  kind-hearted  Scotchman,  being 
newly  elected,  was  placed  on  the  hanging  committee — his 
brother  hangmen  being  Mulready  and  Abraham  Cooper. 
The  arrangement  of  the  pictures  had  proceeded  harmoni- 
ously enough,  the  Englishmen  only  finding  it  necessary 
now  and  then  to  moderate  the  enthusiasm  of  their  fellow- 
hangman  in  favor  of  some  work  that  had  little  to  recom- 
mend it  beyond  the  fact  that  it  was  done  by  Mac  Some- 
body, when  luncheon-time  arrived.  Roberts  was  not  hun- 
gry, could  not  eat  luncheon.  Mulready  and  Cooper  must 
have  been  exceptionally  so,  for  they  were  an  unusually  long 
time  away  from  the  rooms.  In  the  interval,  Roberts,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  carpenters,  had  emulated  the  busy 
bee,  the  result  being  a  goodly  array  of  Scottish  pictures 
in  all  the  best  places. 

"  Good  gracious,  Roberts  !"  said  Cooper.  "  Why,  you 
have  turned  this  room  into  Scotland  Yard." 

Mulready  beckoned  to  the  carpenters,  and  said: 

"Take  all  these  pictures  down  again." 

Roberts  remonstrated. 

Said  Mulready:  "  Friendship  is  noble;  but  when  it  is  in- 
dulged to  the  injury  of  others,  all  the  nobility  goes  to  the 
winds.  Take  them  every  one  down." 

"Then,"  said  Roberts,  "if  I  am  to  be  treated  in  this 
way,  and  my  judgment  disputed,  I  may  as  well  go 
home." 

"  Much  better,"  was  the  reply,  and  home  Roberts  went. 

The  two  men  were  members  of  the  Academy  for  more 
than  thirty  years  after  this  little  dispute,  and  I  grieve  to 
say  they  never  spoke  to  each  other  again.  Exceptions 
prove  the  rule,  for  I  hereby  declare  that  quarrels  among 


162  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

us  arc  almost  unknown.  Differences  of  opinion  exist,  as 
in  all  communities;  but  serious  quarrels,  never.  Stay — 
there  is  one  more  remarkable  exception.  About  five-and- 
forty  years  ago,  there  lived  an  academician  whose  son 
was  also  an  artist,  but  of  moderate  ability.  He  was  a 
constant  exhibitor,  and,  in  the  estimation  of  his  father, 
well  worthy  of  the  rank  of  associate.  Fortunately  that 
opinion  was  only  shared  by  a  few  intimate  friends  of  the 
R.A.,  who  at  election-time  never  mustered  in  sufficient 
strength  to  enable  them  to  perpetrate  a  wrong.  Among 
the  intimates  of  the  veteran  academician  was  one  who,  I 
believe,  never  permitted  any  feeling  but  the  conviction  of 
desert  to  influence  his  vote.  On  the  eve  of  an  election, 

sumptuous  dinners  were  given  in Place,  at  which  the 

candid  friend  always  assisted.  After  a  final  defeat  —  for 
the  young  man  died  soon  after — the  man  I  call  the  candid 
one  paid  a  visit  to  the  old  R.A.  He  was  received  with 
great  coldness;  and  almost  immediately  the  momentous 
question  was  put: 

"Did  you  vote  for  my  son,  sir,  last  Tuesday  night  ?" 

"  That,"  said  the  candid  friend,  "  is  a  question  no  one 
has  the  right  to  ask." 

"There  is  the  door,  sir,  and  I  beg  you  will  never  darken 
it  again." 

Many  years  afterwards  the  veteran  academician,  though 
scarcely  able  to  walk,  was  determined  to  see  the  new  gal- 
lery at  Burlington  House  on  the  occasion  of  our  first  occu- 
pation in  1869.  I  was  talking  to  the  candid  friend  as  the 
old  man  was  supported  to  a  seat  in  the  large  gallery  dur- 
ing the  private  view. 

"  Why,  there  is  old !"  said  I.  "If  you  ever  intend 

to  be  friends  with  him  again  —  judging  from  his  appear- 
ance— you  haven't  much  time  to  lose." 

"Poor  old  boy  !"  said  Mr.  Candid;  "I  have  a  great 
mind  to  go  and  speak  to  him." 

"Do,"  said  I;  "he  will  be  pleased." 

I  watched  the  interview  —  it  was  short.  When  his  old 
friend  spoke  to  the  ancient  R.A.  he  started  and  looked  up, 
muttered  something,  then  his  head  sank  on  his  breast,  after 
the  manner  of  the  acred. 


THE    HANGING    COMMITTEE.  163 

"  Well,"  said  I,  when  the  candid  one  rejoined  me,  "  what 
did  he  say  ?" 

"He  looked  me  straight  in  the  face,  and  after  hearing  a 
pretty  speech  I  made  him,  he  said, '  I  don't  know  you,  sir.' 
By  Jove  !  what  a  good  hater  he  is  !  It's  nearly  twenty 
years  since  he  showed  me  the  door,  because  I  had  done  my 
duty." 

It  may  interest  my  readers  to  know  of  the  great  care 
taken  by  the  council  of  the  Academy  to  prevent  any  com- 
munication respecting  the  exhibition  arrangements  to  the 
outside  world  —  notably  to  would-be  exhibitors.  New 
members  of  council  are  informed  that  they  must  never 
"  breathe  a  syllable  "  to  a  living  being  about  the  places  of 
any  of  the  pictures,  until  the  whole  of  the  exhibition  is 
arranged. 

"  May  I  not  tell  a  friend  that  his  picture  is  on  the  line  ?" 
said  I,  in  subdued  tones,  to  one  of  the  council,  after  Sir 
Charles  Eastlake  had  solemnly  admonished  the  new  coun- 
cillors, of  whom  I  was  one. 

"Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  —  no!  and 
don't  you  see  why  ?  Your  friend's  picture  may  be  on  the 
line  one  minute,  and  off  it  the  next.  I  have  known  in- 
stances of  pictures  changing  places  twenty  times.  No 
work  of  an  outsider  is  safe  in  its  place  till  the  varnishing- 
days; wait  till  then  to  tell  your  friend  his  fate." 

After  cautioning  the  R.A.'s,  the  servants,  carpenters, 
etc.,  engaged  to  place  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  the 
sculpture  in  its  "  den  " — as  the  Trafalgar  Square  Sculpture 
Gallery  was  called — were  sent  for;  when  they  stood  be- 
fore us,  in  what  seemed  to  me  great  number,  the  presi- 
dent informed  them  that  the  breaking  of  the  silence  en- 
joined upon  members  and  servants  alike,  by  the  faintest 
whisper,  would  cause  the  delinquent's  instant  dismissal. 

I  am  referring  to  my  first  experience. 

As  picture  after  picture  was  brought  before  us  by  the 
long  line  of  carpenters,  the  novelty  of  the  occupation  in- 
terested and  amused  me — for  the  first  few  hours.  Then 
came  a  bewildering  and  weary  time;  being  only  human, 
we  were  tired — at  least  I  was.  But  I  can  truly  say  I 
never  allowed  a  picture  to  pass  me  without  giving  it  the 


164  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

attention  it  merited,  and  sometimes  much  more.  As  I  have 
said  elsewhere,  I  have  served  many  times  on  the  council, 
and  on  the  arranging  committee ;  and  I  have  never  known 
of  a  charge  of  dishonesty,  in  any  shape,  being  substanti- 
ated against  the  "  carpenters,"  who  necessarily  become 
acquainted  with  all  the  works  offered  for  exhibition,  and 
very  likely,  in  some  instances,  with  their  producers.  I 
have  often  thought  that  the  temptation  to  the  servants  to 
accept  bribes  from  outsiders  must  be  very  great.  I  can 
imagine — and  should  scarcely  condemn — an  "  outsider  " 
who  might  seek  out  one  of  the  carpenters,  and  say  to  him, 
"Look  here,  you  know  my  little  picture;  whenever  you 
see  the  hangers  searching  for  a  picture  to  fill  a  place — a 
good  place,  you  know — keep  mine  before  them ;  and  here 
is  so  much  for  you."  Ah,  my  dear  young  outsider,  we 
know  that  little  game  so  well!  I  discovered  it  during  my 
first  hanging-days.  To  make  the  manoeuvre  clear  to  my 
reader,  I  must  ask  him  to  imagine  long  rows  of  pictures 
stacked  together  in  each  room,  some  with  their  faces  ex- 
posed, some — most,  indeed — showing  only  their  innocent 
backs.  One  of  the  committee  was  looking  for  a  picture 
to  fill  a  vacant  place,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  to 
a  carpenter  who  offered  a  picture  with  the  words,  "  I 
think  this  is  about  the  size,  sir."  My  friend  looked  at  it 
for  an  instant,  passed  his  measuring-rod  over  it,  and  walked 
away.  I  thought  little  of  this  incident.  The  hanging  pro- 
ceeded, and,  the  walls  of  the  large  room  being  nearly  cov- 
ered, we  thought  it  well  to  begin  upon  room  No.  2.  Our 
work  had  not  progressed  much;  the  line-side  of  one  por- 
tion of  the  room  being  filled  up  to  a  small  space  in  one 
corner,  when,  as  if  by  magic,  the  carpenter's  protege  ap- 
peared just  beneath  it,  mutely  offering  itself  for  accept- 
ance. "  Hallo  !"  said  the  hangman,  "  where  has  this  come 
from?  it  was  in  the  other  room  just  now.  Stop,  let  me 
look  at  it;  it's  pretty  good,  isn't  it  ?  Not  quite  up  to  the 
place,  perhaps.  Measure  it,  Frith.  Too  big,  is  it  ?  Here, 
take  this  picture  away."  Failure  number  two. 

Suspicion  began  to  dawn  upon  me,  being,  I  suppose,  of 
a  more  suspicious  turn  than  the  others,  who  suspected 
nothing;  not  even  when  the  persevering  little  picture  fol- 


THE    HANGING   COMM1TTEK.  105 

lowed  us  from  room  to  room,  and  was  at  last  hung  to  get 
"  rid  of  it,"  on  the  same  principle  as  that  which  influenced 
the  well-known  lady  when  she  married  her  six-times-re- 
jected lover  to  get  rid  of  him.  I  have  always  prided  my- 
self, foolishly,  perhaps,  on  my  power  of  detecting  the  emo- 
tions of  the  mind  in  the  human  face — even  when  a  mask 
is  placed  upon  it.  If  the  carpenter  had  a  mask,  he  did 
not  use  it,  for  I  watched  him  when  his  charge  was  at  last 
favorably  disposed  of;  and,  if  I  had  any  doubt  about  the 
nature  of  the  interest  he  took  in  it,  his  satisfied  expression 
dispelled  it. 

Feeling  that  my  evil  imagination  might  have  run  away 
with  me,  and  that  after  all  the  affair  might  be  one  of  pure 
accident,  I  said  nothing;  but  in  after-years,  when  precisely 
similar  "  accidents  "  took  place  under  my  eyes  again  and 
again,  I  could  no  longer  persuade  myself  that  outside  in- 
fluence was  not  occasionally  brought  to  bear  upon  our  ex- 
cellent staff  of  "  carpenters." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HANGING   REMINISCENCES. 

WHILE  on  the  subject  of  my  hanging  reminiscences,  I 
may  further  note  the  loving  feeling  existing  between  all 
of  Scottish  race.  A  Mr.  Mac ,  a  Scotch  artist  of  con- 
siderable merit,  and  a  fruitless  seeker  after  academic  hon- 
ors, was,  it  is  needless  to  say,  a  friend  of  Wilkie's  ;  of 
whom  it  is  reported  that  on  one  of  the  hanging-days  he, 
of  course  being  one  of  the  committee,  was  seen  wandering 
about  the  rooms  carrying  a  small  picture,  and  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  fit  it  into  a  good  place. 

"  Why,  Wilkie,"  said  a  brother  hangman,  "  what  makes 
you  take  so  much  trouble  about  that  picture  of  Green's  ? 
it's  not  a  partic — " 

"  Green  !"    exclaimed    Wilkie  ;    "  I    thought    it    was 

*  o 

Mac 's,"  and  incontinently  left  the  picture  to  its  fate. 

The  interest  Wilkie  took  in  Mac —  -  extended  to  his 
using  all  his  influence  by  word  and  vote  at  election-time, 
and  as  it  sometimes  happens  when  the  merits  of  promi- 
nent candidates  are  supposed  to  be  pretty  equal,  names 
are  mentioned  and  merits  canvassed,  in  those  moments  of 
hesitation  Wilkie  would  always  exclaim,  "  Well,  there's 

Mac ."    This  recommendation,  so  frequently  repeated, 

was  stopped  at  last  by  Mulready's  loud  exclamation,  "D — n 
Mac !"  Beyond  such  small,  and  nearly  always  unsuc- 
cessful, attempts  at  nepotism,  proceedings  in  respect  of 
the  selection  and  arrangement  of  the  yearly  exhibition  are 
carried  out  with  absolute  impartiality.  Instead  of  the 
haste  and  carelessness  with  which  the  council  for  selection 
is  so  often  ignorantly  charged,  the  most  scrupulous  care  is 
taken  in  the  examination  of  each  picture,  as  it  is  carried 
by  an  assistant  past -every  member  of  the  council.  Wheth- 
er, if  the  works  of  all  the  R.A.'s  and  A.R.A.'s  were  sub- 


HANGING    REMINISCENCES.  167 

milled  lo  ihc  judgment  of  the  council — as  outsiders  arc — 
they  would  all  be  admitted,  is  not  open  to  question,  for  I 
am  a  witness  to  the  contrary.  When  Constable  was  a 
member  of  the  selecting  council,  a  small  landscape  was 
brought  to  judgment;  it  was  not  received  with  favor. 
The  first  judge  said,  "That's  a  poor  thing;"  the  next  mut- 
tered, "  It's  very  green;"  in  short,  the  picture  had  to  stand 
the  fire  of  animadversion  from  everybody  but  Constable, 
the  last  remark  being,  "  It's  devilish  bad — cross  it."  Con- 
stable rose,  took  a  couple  of  steps  in  front,  turned  round, 
and  faced  the  council. 

"  That  picture,"  said  he,  "  was  painted  by  me.  I  had  a 
notion  that  some  of  you  didn't  like  my  work,  and  this  is 
a  pretly  convincing  proof.  I  am  very  much  obliged  lo 
you,"  making  a  low  bow. 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  ihe  president  to  the  head-carpenter; 
"  how  came  that  picture  among  the  outsiders  ?  Bring  it 
back;  it  must  be  admitted,  of  course." 

"  No  !  it  must  not !"  said  Constable;  "  out  it  goes  !" 
and,  in  spite  of  apology  and  entreaty,  out  it  went. 

This  story  was  told  me  by  Cooper,  who  witnessed  the 
scene.  One  more  example,  in  which  I  played  a  part.  The 
hanging  was  over,  the  whole  exhibition  arranged,  and  the 
members  admitted  to  varnish  or  touch  up  their  pictures. 
I  was  in  the  Large  Room  in  Trafalgar  Square,  when  I  saw 
an  academician  evidently  searching  for  a  picture,  and  un- 
able to  find  it.  Thinking,  as  frequently  happens,  that  he 
was  looking  for  the  work  of  some  outside  friend,  I  said  : 

"Whose  picture  are  you  in  search  of?  as  I  helped  to 
arrange  the  exhibition,  perhaps  I  can  assist  you." 

"  I  am  looking  for  my  own,"  said  he. 

"  What  was  your  subject  ?" 

" '  Lear  and  Cordelia.'  " 

My  heart  sank.  I  had  a  clear  recollection  of  a  washy- 
looking  Cordelia,  and  a  Lear  with  all  the  characteristics 
of  a  street  beggar,  that  had  met  its  fate  at  the  hands  of 
the  council  with  deserved  rapidity,  for  it  "  went  out  like 
a  shot,"  not  a  soul  having  the  least  idea  who  its  author 
might  be.  The  unlucky  picture  was  found  among  the 
rejected,  and  the  carpenters  were  warned  that  another 


168  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

such  instance  of  carelessness  would  lead  to  the  discharge 
of  the  whole  of  them.  I  must  add  that  the  picftire  went 
the  way  of  the  unfortunate,  and  never  appeared  upon  the 
Academy  walls.  Very  few,  indeed,  are  the  examples  of 
painters'  powers  remaining  unshaken  b^  time.  If,  as 
Shakespeare  says,  "  time  cannot  wither  (certain  things), 
nor  custom  stale  their  infinite  variety,"  the  observation 
will  not  apply  to  my  profession;  and  one  of  the  knottiest 
problems  left  for  academic  solution  at  the  present  time  is 
that  of  reconciling  prescriptive  rights  with  the  interests  of 
art,  and  the  interests  of  the  painters  themselves.  Every- 
body knows  the  story  of  Gil  Bias  and  the  Bishop  of  Gra- 
nada. Nature  kindly,  or  unkindly,  hides  from  a  man  the 
knowledge  of  his  failing  powers.  How  often  do  I  hear 
old  painters  say,  on  showing  a  mere  "  shadow  of  a  shade  " 
of  former  power:  "  There,  I  mean  to  say  I  never  painted 
a  better  picture  in  my  life  than  that !" 

I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  soon  be  using  similar  language, 
and  when  I  do  I  hope  I  shall  find  a  friend  to  act  the  part 
of  Gil  Bias  for  me,  when  I  promise  not  to  imitate  the 
Bishop  of  Granada.  Few  members  of  the  Academy  have 
served  as  often  on  the  hanging  committee  as  the  writer 
of  these  lines  ;  and  it  has  happened  to  me  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  on  agreement  with  my  brother  hangers,  to  have 
to  represent  to  the  council  the  necessity  of  asking  a  mem- 
ber to  withdraw  from  exhibition  a  work  which  we  thought 
unworthy  of  his  fame.  In  each  case  the  request  was 
gratefully  agreed  to,  and  the  work  withdrawn.  But  on 
one  occasion  we  had  to  deal  with  two  specimens  of  inca- 
pacity from  the  hands  of  a  very  old  member,  whose  por- 
traits, ages  before,  had  been  justly  considered  ornaments 
of  the  exhibitions.  One  of  these  delectable  productions 
was  a  portrait  of  a  clergyman,  the  other  a  picture  called 
"  Charity."  The  divine  was  not  so  desperately  bad  as  to 
necessitate  his  expulsion,  if  one  peculiarity  could  in  any 
way  be  dealt  with.  He  was  supposed  to  be  preaching 
with  appropriate  earnestness;  and  his  eagerness  to  convert 
had  affected  his  eyes  in  a  remarkable  manner  :  they  were 
exactly  like  those  of  an  owl;  the  eyeballs  were  intensely 
black,  with  a  circle  of  light  bright  blue  encompassing 


HANGING   REMINISCENCES.  169 

them  round  about.  "We  tried  him  on  the  wall,  but  dis- 
tance lent  increased  terror  to  his  expression;  he  glared  at 
us  so  fearfully  that,  in  regard  to  the  consequences  that 
might  arise  to  unwary  visitors,  we  hastily  took  him  down 
again. 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  a  brother  hangman,  "  what  is  to  be 
done?  It  is  no  use  asking  the  old  man  to  withdraw  either 
of  these  pictures — he  won't." 

"No,"  replied  my  friend  ;  "but  I  think  we  might  take 
some  of  the  enthusiasm  out  of  those  eyes." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  A  finger  was  wetted,  a  lit- 
tle blacking  taken  from  my  friend's  shoe  ;  the  bright  blue 
circle  received  a  glaze  of  blacking,  and  the  glare  of  terror- 
inspiring  fury  was  changed  into  a  softened,  appealing  ex- 
pression, as  likely,  perhaps,  to  prevail  with  an  obstinate 
sinner  as  the  more  denunciatory  form  of  admonition. 
With  that  little  change  the  picture  took  its  place  among 
the  rest.  The  second  performance,  "  Charity,"  had  then 
to  be  considered.  A  figure  which,  after  long  examination, 
we  agreed  to  be  intended  for  a  monk,  was  represented 
standing — no,  falling — against  a  rickety  door — the  door 
of  a  monastery,  if  a  black  object  with  square  patches  for 
windows  could  be  accepted  for  such  a  building.  The 
monk's  head  was  enormous  ;  the  artist,  with  the  orig- 
inality of  genius,  had  defied  nature  to  the  extent  of 
placing  the  features  in  the  monstrous  face  out  of  their 
usual  positions;  one  eye  had  strayed  into  the  forehead; 
there  was  no  mouth  that  we  could  discover — considered 
useless,  perhaps,  as  the  monk  may  have  belonged  to  a 
monastic  order  in  which  abstinence  from  food  was  en- 
joined; the  right  hand,  holding  what  was  more  like  a 
huge  muflin  than  anything  else,  was  attached  to  an  arm 
longer  than  that  of  Rob  Roy,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
able  to  garter  below  the  knee  without  stooping.  And  the 
crowd  of  beggars  surrounding  the  charitable  monk  !  No 
words  of  mine  could  do  justice  to  deformity  which  Nature 
in  her  wildest  freaks  had  never  equalled.  The  three  hang- 
men, with  their  long  measuring -rods,  looking  like  the 
three  witches  in  "  Macbeth,"  stood  staring  at  the  painful 
example  of  the  incapacity  of  age,  till  one  broke  silence 
8 


170  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

and  said:  "Blacking  is  of  no  use  here.  What  shall  we 

do  ?  Old told  So-and-so  that  '  Charity '  is  the  best 

thing  he  ever  did.  He  won't  withdraw  it  if  the  forty  of 
us  went  down  on  our  knees  and  prayed  to  him." 

After  a  pause  I  said:  "  If  you  two  will  stand  by  me — as 
oldest  member  I  shall  surely  be  pitched  into — we  won't 
say  a  word,  but  just  leave  '  Charity'  out  in  the  cold." 

This  was  agreed  to;  the  picture  was  returned  to  him 
who  made  it,  and  we  never  heard  a  word  of  complaint.  I 
think  I  have  said  enough  to  prove  that  a  change  in  the 
laws  of  the  Academy  is  required  to  enable  a  properly-con- 
structed tribunal  to  deal  with  such  cases  as  I  have  de- 
scribed; cases  which  are  by  no  means  confined  to  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  aged  members  of  the  body,  but — either 
from  carelessness  or  incompetence,  or  both — are  as  often 
found  existing  among  the  younger  men;  who  occasionally 
display  pictures  which,  had  they  been  subjected  to  the 
judgment  of  the  council,  would  assuredly  have  been  con- 
demned, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

•  •  i :  A  M  >  . ,  A  T  I :    SAND  8." 

MY  summer  holiday  of  1851  was  spent  at  Ramsgale. 
Weary  of  costume-painting,  I  had  determined  to  try  my 
hand  on  modern  life,  with  all  its  drawbacks  of  unpictur- 
esque  dress.  The  variety  of  character  on  Ramsgate  Sands 
attracted  me — all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women 
were  there.  Pretty  groups  of  ladies  were  to  be  found, 
reading,  idling,  working,  and  unconsciously  forming  them- 
selves into  very  paintable  compositions.  Under  date  Sep- 
tember 4,  my  diary  says,  among  other  entries:  "On  the 
sands  sketching."  "September  10,  sketching  on  sands 
till  one."  Each  day,  up  to  the  14th,  I  find  occupied  in 
making  slight  drawings  of  details,  and  on  the  14th  the 
diary  says:  "Made  pencil-drawing  of  Ramsgate  Sands. 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  make  anything  of  it — who  knows?" 
The  interpretation  of  this  being  that  the  different  groups 
taken  from  nature  were  arranged  to  form  the  composition 
as  it  appeared  afterwards  in  the  completed  work.  The 
pencil-drawing  was  but  preliminary  to  a  very  careful  oil- 
sketch,  in  which  color,  light,  and  shade,  and  to  some  ex- 
tent character,  were  determined.  So  novel  was  the  at- 
tempt to  deal  with  modern  life,  that  I  felt  it  to  be  very 
necessary  to  be  able  to  show  to  those  whose  advice  I  val- 
ued the  clearest  possible  indication  of  my  new  venture. 
When  the  oil-study  was  finished  I  called  in  the  critics; 
but  before  I  speak  of  their  divergence  of  opinion  I  may 
give  some  extracts  from  my  diary  describing  the  progress 
of  the  oil-sketch: 

"  Sept.  30. — Began  idly  to  make  a  sketch  from  Rams- 
gate Sands,  which,  if  successful,  will  considerably  alter 
my  practice." 

"Oct.  2. — An  idle  sort  of  day,  thinking,  and  arranging 
for  '  Rarnsgatc  Sands.' " 


172  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"Oct.  3. — Finished  outline  of  'Sands,'  an  extensive  busi- 
ness; out  early  to  Great  Exhibition." 

"Oct.   21. — Began  to  paint  in   sketch  of  'Ramsgate 
Sands;'  did  one  group." 

"  Oct.  22. — Again  at  work;  did  another  group." 

"Oct.  24. — Again  at  sketch  of  'Ramsgate  Sands;'  pro- 
gressing with  it." 

"  Oct.  25. — Finished  group  of  girls  reading,  and  a  man 
selling  toys." 

"Oct.  28,  29. — 'Ramsgate  Sands;'  worked,  but  did  little 
good." 

"  Nov.  1. — Worked  all  day  on  'Ramsgate  Sands;'  fear 
I  am  spending  more  time  on  it  than  it  is  worth." 

"  Nov.  3. — Sketched  the  widow  and  her  friends." 

"  Nov.  4. — The  green  lover  and  over  principal  group." 

"  Nov.  8. — Sea-shore  and  figures." 

"Nov.  11. — All  day  on  background  of  'Sands;'  fear  it 
will  not  do.  Disagreeable  at  present." 

"Nov.  13. — Again  on  background  of  'Sands;'  finished 
it;  like  it  much  better." 

"Nov.  14.— Finished  sketch." 

"Nov.  15. — Ward  saw  sketch  and  seemed  struck  with  it." 

The  importance,  real  or  fancied,  of  a  serious  undertaking 
must  be  my  excuse  for  inflicting  these  extracts  upon  the 
reader;  they  may  show  to  the  student  the  necessity  for 
careful  preparation  before  a  large  composition  of  figures 
is  attempted.  Ward  and  Egg  were  the  first  artists  to 
whom  I  submitted  my  sketch.  Ward  approved,  and  I  find 
by  my  diary  "  that  Egg  saw  '  Ramsgate  Sands,'  and  strong- 
ly advised  me  to  paint  a  large  picture  from  it."  Mr. 
Birt — who  may  be  remembered  as  the  purchaser  of  the 
"  Gleaner  " — bought  the  sketch  subject  to  its  being  more 
finished.  The  subsequent  history  of  this  transaction  may 
serve  as  another  example  of  the  whims  of  the  "patron." 
Under  date  of  March  13,  1852,  I  find  by  my  diary  that 
"  Webster,  R. A.,  called,  and  seemed  greatly  pleased  with 
picture  of  'Pope  and  Lady  Mary'"  (then  on  the  eve  of 
finish),  "and  especially  with  the  sketch  of  'Ramsgate 
Sands.'  He  said  he  wished  I  was  going  to  paint  the  sub- 
ject for  him."  On  Good  Friday,  the  9th  April,  the  picture 


"RAMSGATE  SANDS."  173 

of  the  "  Sands "  was  begun,  and  on  Friday,  the  7th  May, 
the  first  touch  of  paint  was  put  upon  it.  As  the  picture 
was  eventually  very  successful,  the  superstition  in  respect 
of  Friday  may  be  disposed  of  in  this  instance.  Most 
critics  approved  of  the  subject,  but  there  were  several 
non-contents.  One  man,  an  artist,  said  it  was  "  like  Green- 
wich fair  without  the  fun;"  another,  that  it  was  "a  piece 
of  vulgar  Cockney  business  unworthy  of  being  represented 
even  in  an  illustrated  paper."  My  non-artist  friends  were 
one  and  all  against  it ;  one  said,  "  The  interest,  which  he 
could  not  discover,  could  only  be  local;"  and  an  acade- 
mician, on  hearing  of  it,  said  to  a  friend  of  mine,  "  Doing 
the  people  disporting  on  the  sands  at  Ramsgate,  is  he? 
Well,  thank  goodness,  I  didn't  vote  for  him!  I  never 
could  see  much  in  his  pictures;  but  I  didn't  think  he  would 
descend  to  such  a  Cockney  business  as  that  you  describe. 
This  comes  of  electing  these  young  fellows  too  hastily." 

With  certain  interruptions  by  portraits  and  small  pict- 
ures, the  "  Sands  "  went  steadily  on.  The  summer  of  1852 
found  me  again  at  Ramsgate,  mainly  for  the  purpose  of 
painting  the  background,  which  I  wished  to  make  locally 
accurate.  Photography  was  in  its  infancy  at  that  time; 
I  had  therefore  to  rely  on  my  own  drawings  of  houses, 
cliffs,  and  bathing-machines;  for  though  photography,  or, 
as  it  was  then  called,  Talbotyping,  was  tried,  the  result 
was  useless.  The  sea  troubled  me  greatly,  as  the  follow- 
ing extract  shows: 

"  Sept.  6. — At  work  at  the  sea,  and  perfectly  at  sea  I 
found  myself ;  for  I  could  no  more  paint  it  than  I  could 
fly  to  the  moon." 

Then  came  doubts  thus  expressed: 

"Sept.  11.— Clock  tower,  obelisk,  and  hotel.  Will  all 
this  repay  me  in  any  way  ?  I  doubt  it!" 

"  Sept.  27. — Leech  called  and  said  picture  would  be  *a 
great  hit.'  Who  can  tell  ?" 

By  the  end  of  the  month  I  was  back  in  London,  and  at 
work  pretty  constantly  on  the  picture  on  which  I  felt  so 
much  to  depend.  It  was  towards  the  close  of  the  year 
that  I  became  convinced  that  much  more  time  was  re- 
quired for  finishing  properly  than  that  at  my  disposal  be- 


174  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

fore  tbo  Exhibition  of  1853.     I  may  close  the  year  with 
another  extract  from  my  diary: 

"Dec,  31. — Skirt  of  pink  girl;  worked  slowly.  To  a 
dance  at  Charles  Dickens'.  Talfourd  proposed  Dickens' 
health;  a  merry  party.  Left  them  dancing  at  two  o'clock; 
and  so  ends  the  year  '52." 

Though  all  hope  of  completing  my  picture  satisfactorily 
was  abandoned,  I  find  I  worked  as  steadily  at  it  as  dark 
weather,  the  model  difficulty,  and  other  hinderances  would 
permit,  until  my  election  as  an  academician  in  February, 
1853.  Newly-elected  members  are  expected,  indeed  com- 
pelled, to  present  a  specimen  of  their  work  gratuitously  to 
the  institution;  and  any  such  work  must  be  submitted  to 
the  council  and  approved  by  them,  before  the  new  mem- 
ber can  receive  his  diploma.  The  result  of  the  regulation 
may  be  seen  in  the  Diploma  Gallery  at  Burlington  House; 
where,  though  there  are  admirable  examples  of  some  of 
the  elect,  there  are  others  which,  being  unsalable,  have 
been  given  to  the  Academy.  I  cannot  say  that  my  diploma 
picture  was  unsalable,  because  I  found  purchasers  ready 
to  take  it;  but  I  should  be  sorry  to  stake  anybody's  rep- 
utation upon  it,  if  it  were  much  better  than  it  is.  The 
origin  of  the  subject  may  amuse.  Being  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  my  eyes  pretty  well  open  as  I  walked  along  the 
streets,  they  were  one  day  gratified  by  the  sight  of  an 
orange-girl  of  a  rare  type  of  rustic  beauty.  Her  smile  as 
she  offered  her  oranges  was  very  bewitching,  and  had,  no 
doubt,  assisted  her  in  creating  a  taste  for  oranges  on  many 
occasions.  I  became  a  large  purchaser,  and  succeeded, 
after  much  trouble,  in  getting  her  to  promise  to  sit  for  me, 
provided  I  would  go  to  her  confessor  (she  was  Irish  and  a 
Catholic)  and  get  his  consent.  A  young  Catholic  friend 
was  staying  with  me  at  the  time,  and  he  readily  consented 
to  intercede  with  the  priest.  That  gentleman,  suspicious 
of  my  friend,  gave  him  a  very  cool  reception,  and  a  flat 
refusal  to  sanction  his  application.  For  some  time  the  girl 
was  obdurate,  but  at  last,  as  she  could  not  get  the  priest's 
permission,  she  consented  to  sit  without  it.  I  determined 
to  paint  a  laughing  face  from  her — under  the  most  favor- 
able conditions  a  most  difficult  thing  to  do,  but  in  her  case 


"liAMSGATE    SANDS."  175 

hopeless,  unless  I  could  have  induced  her  to  go  on  for  two 
hours  selling  imaginary  oranges  to  phantom  purchasers. 
I  could  not  find  anything  to  talk  about  that  would  amuse 
her,  and  she  could  not  talk  to  me.  In  one  of  my  attempts 
at  conversation,  I  asked  her  if  she  was  not  sometimes  an- 
noyed by  the  soldiers  and  street-loafers  that  frequented 
Albany  Street,  where  she  usually  stood  to  sell  her  fruit. 
Her  experience  of  life  was  summed  up  in  a  few  words. 

"  Yes,  sometimes  she  was  bothered ;  but  it  was  by 
swells.  Gentlemen,"  she  said,  "  is  much  greater  black- 
guards than  what  blackguards  is." 

After  many  attempts  to  rouse  an  expression  that  would 
help  me  to  make  a  laughing  face,  I  found  the  worst  of 
hinderances  that  can  afflict  a  painter  come  upon  me — my 
model  fell  fast  asleep  ;  and  as  nothing  that  I  could  say  or  do 
would  keep  her  awake,  I  abandoned  the  laughing  subject, 
and  painted  "  The  Sleepy  Model,"  who  now  sleeps  all  day 
long  in  the  Diploma  Gallery.  By  showing  a  laughing 
face  sketched  on  the  canvas  before  which  a  perplexed 
artist  stands,  and  the  model,  who  ought  to  assist  him  in 
realizing  the  expression,  fast  asleep,  I  thought  I  should 
prove  in  a  small  way  one  of  the  difficulties  that  beset  all 
artists — to  say  nothing  of  the  situation,  which  has  its  comic 
side.  The  picture  was  not  exhibited  in  the  annual  show; 
it  was  reserved  for  a  more  cruel  destiny  in  the  Diploma 
Gallery — that  of  being  always  exhibited  among  many 
better,  and  a  few  worse,  than  "  The  Sleepy  Model." 

The  greater  part  of  the  year  1853  was  devoted  to  the 
"  Sands "  picture,  delays  taking  place  at  intervals  from 
the  difficulty  of  finding  suitable  models.  I  noticed  an 
incident  of  pretty  frequent  occurrence,  which  I  deter- 
mined to  introduce  into  the  background  of  my  picture. 
A  couple  of  men  were  joint  proprietors  of  a  "  happy  fam- 
ily," consisting  of  cats  and  mice,  dogs  and  rabbits,  and 
other  creatures  whose  natural  instincts  had  been  extin- 
guished so  far  as  to  allow  of  an  appearance  of  armed  neu- 
trality, if  not  of  friendship,  to  exist  among  them.  When 
the  cat  had  played  with  the  mice,  and  had  allowed  ca- 
naries to  peck  it  without  resenting  the  liberty,  a  hare  was 
made  to  play  upon  a  tambourine,  and  during  the  finale  the 


176  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

proprietor's  friend  and  assistant  on  the  drum  made  the 
usual  collection.  The  drummer  wore  a  wonderful  green 
coat ;  he  was  very  ugly,  but  an  excellent  type  of  his  class. 
As  I  made  up  my  mind  to  introduce  the  whole  of  the 
show,  taking  the  moment  of  the  hare's  performance  as  the 
chief  point,  it  was  necessary  to  enter  into  negotiations 
with  the  proprietors.  I  found,  as  I  expected,  that  they 
hailed  from  London  ;  and  I  also  found  that  they  would 
sit,  and  the  animals  should  sit,  if  they  were  sufficiently 
well  paid  for  doing  so.  The  chief  proprietor's  name  was 
Gwillim,  and  his  town  residence  was  32  Duke  Street, 
Tower  Street,  Waterloo  Road.  He  came  to  see  me  in 
London,  and  a  day  was  fixed  for  the  beginning  of  my 
performance.  It  was  late  in  December,  when  our  ene- 
mies the  fogs  were  upon  us,  that  I  was  promised  my  first 
sitting  from  Mr.  Gwillim.  Instead  of  that  gentleman 
came  the  following  letter  : 

"December  23,  1853. 

»  giRj — I  ham  sorry  I  Cannot  as  attend  on  you  to-Day.  My  limbs  is 
so  Bad  that  I  thout  I  Could  not  Do  you  juctice,  and  It  Being  so  Wet  and 
Fogger  I  thout  it  Wol  Make  no  Diference  to  you 

"  I  Remain  you 

"  MR.  GWILLIM. 

"At  32  Duke  St.,  Tower  St.,  Warterlew  Road." 

However,  the  fogs  lifted,  and  in  due  time  I  completed 
a  tolerable  resemblance  of  Mr.  Gwillim  and  his  establish- 
ment, including  the  ugly  drummer ;  whose  coat  became 
my  property,  and  did  duty  on  many  occasions  afterwards. 
Under  date  of  December  30,  says  my  diary  : 

"  Gwillim  came  at  last.  Set  to  work  about  12  ;  worked 
hard  and  painted  him  and  the  hare,  having  the  birds  ar- 
ranged for  to-morrow." 

"Dec.  31.  —  A  good  day  at  birds,  cages,  etc.;  fin- 
ished them  pretty  well.  Paid  the  man  30s.,  and  bade 
him  adieu." 

Though  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  overwhelmed 
with  commissions  for  small  pictures,  nearly  all  my  larger 
pictures  were  speculations  as  regarded  purchasers  ;  but 
up  to  the  "  Ramsgate  Sands  "  time,  I  had  had  little  diffi- 
culty in  disposing  of  works  that,  from  their  size,  and  the 


"RAMSGATE  SANDS."  177 

time  occupied  in  completing  them,  were  necessarily  ex- 
pensive. It  was  my  habit  to  leave  a  large  loophole  for 
the  escape  of  a  purchaser,  in  the  event  of  any  objection 
arising  in  his  mind  in  respect  of  the  way  his  commission 
may  have  been  executed.  I  found  a  few  repudiations  on 
grounds  to  which  I  could  not  object.  About  the  time  of 
the  beginning  of  the  "  Sands,"  some  collectors  found  me 
out,  to  whom,  according  to  their  own  showing,  price  was 
of  no  consequence.  One,  I  believe  a  very  rich  one  from 
the  north,  to  whom  I  showed  the  Ramsgate  sketch,  asked 
the  price,  the  size  of  the  intended  work,  etc.  The  price 
I  could  not  name  till  after  the  completion  of  the  picture; 
the  size  was  satisfactory.  The  collector  said  he  was  "  per- 
fectly delighted  "  with  the  subject  as  treated  by  me,  and 
he  left  me  after  extracting  a  promise  that  I  would  give 
him  the  first  refusal  of  the  picture.  The  gentleman  in 
question,  a  perfect  stranger  to  me,  happened  to  be  a  friend 
of  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  an  artist,  to  whom  I  confided 

the  fact  of  Mr.  S being,  in  all  probability,  the  happy 

possessor  of  my  picture,  then  on  the  verge  of  completion. 

"  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Mr.  S was  here  the  other  day.  He  told  me  he  had 

seen  your  sketch  of  '  Ramsgate  Sands,'  and  (you  won't 
mind  my  telling  you,  will  you  ?)  he  said  he  wondered  how 
anybody  in  his  senses  could  waste  his  time  in  painting 
such  a  tissue  of  vulgarity,  and  that  he  wouldn't  have  such 
a  thing  on  his  walls." 

This  was  what  would  be  called  in  prize-ring  language 
"  a  facer,"  and  quite  sufficient  to  convince  me  that  my 
promise  to  give  Mr.  S the  "  first  refusal "  was  un- 
necessary. The  picture  was  refused  by  five  other  "pa- 
trons," upon  one  excuse  or  another.  One  gentleman,  find- 
ing himself  cornered  (P.R.  again),  said  the  picture  wanted 
something.  Frank  Stone,  who  stood  by  and  heard  this 
brilliant  objection,  turned  to  the  collector  and  said  : 
"What  do  you  say  to  a  balloon,  sir?"  pointing  to  the 
sky.  "  Would  something  of  that  kind  finish  the  picture  ?" 

After  half  a  dozen  rejections,  I  refused  to  listen  to  the 
advice  of  my  friends  to  "  avoid  picture-dealers,"  and  the 
picture  was  bought  at  the  price  of  a  thousand  guineas  by 
8* 


178  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Messrs.  Lloyd  ;  who  Lad  no  cause  to  repent  of  their  bar- 
gain, as  I  shall  afterwards  prove.  While  the  larger  pict- 
ure was  progressing  slowly  towards  completion,  I  painted 
several  small  works,  the  ready  sale  of  which  enabled  me 
to  keep  the  ship — now  laden  with  several  small  passen- 
gers— well  before  the  wind.  Among  the  best  was  a  scene 
from  "Woodstock,"  which  —  with  three  other  subjects 
from  Scott — was  very  beautifully  engraved  by  Stocks 
for  a  new  edition  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  In  the  prog- 
ress of  the  "  Sands,"  I  benefited  greatly  by  the  advice 
of  some  of  my  brother  artists.  About  six  weeks  before 
"  sending-in  day  "  I  begged  for  a  criticism  from  Mulready, 
the  greatest  of  them  all  ;  and  never  shall  I  forget  the 
visit.  My  diary  says  : 

"Feb.  20. — Mulready  came  early,  and  looked  over 
the  picture.  He  complained  chiefly  of  the  color  and  ef- 
fect— too  many  gray  tones  used — more  positive  tints  should 
have  been  chosen  for  some  of  the  foreground  figures;  the 
light  and  shade  not  sufficiently  massed,  too  much  cut  up 
into  small  pieces  of  sharp  dark  and  light — all  my  old  faults. 
Worked  a  little  in  bad  spirits." 

Bad  spirits,  indeed.  The  severity  of  the  remarks  was 
awful ;  so  severe  that  the  old  man,  conscious  of  his  strong 
language,  looking  towards  a  curtain  that  covered  the  stu- 
dio door,  said,  "  I  hope  no  one  can  hear  what  I  am  say- 
ing." 

When  he  left  me,  I  remember  saying  to  myself,  "  If  all 
that  is  true,  I  have  made  a  dismal  failure."  Unable  to 
work,  I  went  to  Egg  and  implored  him  to  tell  me  if  there 
was  hope  in  my  work  or  not.  He  returned  with  me,  and 
cheered  me  a  good  deal.  He  said,  "  You  must  remember 
that  Mulready  had  come  from  his  own  brilliantly-colored 
picture — his  eye  accustomed  to  strong  colors — to  yours, 
in  which  bright  reds  and  greens  could  not  be  used." 

That  might  account  for  much  that  Mulready  said;  but 
to  this  day  I  cannot  understand  the  sweeping  condemna- 
tion that  he  passed  upon  every  quality  in  the  picture.  He 
could  see  no  character,  no  beauty  in  the  women,  no  nature 
or  truth  anywhere.  I  knew  him  to  be  a  severe,  but  not 
an  ill-natured  critic  ;  and  the  idea  of  jealousy  was  too  ab- 


"RAMSGATB  SANDS."  179 

surd  to  be  entertained  for  a  moment.  And  that  he  was 
absolutely  wrong  the  after-success  of  the  picture  abun- 
dantly proved.  Show-Sunday  came,  and  numbers  of  people 
with  it.  Under  date  of  April  3,  I  find  : 

"  Many  visitors.  On  the  whole  feel  the  picture  is 
thought  successful ;  cannot  tell — it  may  be  the  reverse." 

This  was  my  first  year  as  councillor  and  hangman.  As 
a  very  young  member,  I  was  not  allowed  to  interfere  with 
the  two  older  men,  who  had  gone  through  the  arranging 
of  the  exhibition  several  times  before.  If  I  proposed  a 
picture  for  a  good  position,  they  were  two  to  one  against 
me;  still,  in  some  few  instances,  I  was  permitted  to  have 
an  opinion,  and  to  act  upon  it.  Of  course  I  took  care 
that  "Ramsgate  Sands"  had  a  good  place;  and  when  I 
hung  it,  I  remember  well  the  relief  I  felt,  that  though  not 
a  word  was  said  about  the  merit  of  the  picture,  its  situa- 
tion was  not  objected  to.  The  secretary  said  :  "  You  have 
given  yourself  a  first-rate  place;  now  take  care  what  pict- 
ures you  hang  all  round  your  own,  or  you  will  kill  it  to  a 
certainty." 

The  next  entry  in  my  diary  says  : 

"  April  22. — Finished  my  first  hanging.  It  is  a  painful 
and  most  disagreeable  business — so  many  interests  to  con- 
sider. Tried  to  do  my  duty,  though  perhaps  with  too 
much  thought  for  my  friends." 

Regard  for  the  interest  of  my  friends  reminds  me  of  a 
young  student  whom  I  was  very  desirous  to  serve.  He 
had  sent  his  first  work  to  the  Academy — a  scene  from 
Sheridan  Knowles'  play  of  "The  Hunchback" — a  small 
picture  containing  two  figures.  Cooper  and  Webster  were 
my  fellow-hangers,  and,  on  my  calling  their  attention  to 
my  friend's  work,  Cooper  used  language  about  it  which 
I  cannot  repeat.  Webster  smiled,  and  asked  me  if  I  should 
like  the  "place  of  honor"  for  it.  From  the  remarks  and 
manner  of  those  gentlemen  I  gave  up  the  idea  of  a  good 
place  ;  but  as  my  young  friend  had  told  me  that  so  long 
as  his  picture  was  hung  he  did  not  mind  if  it  were  hung 
upside  down  at  the  top  of  the  room,  I  still  had  hope  that 
I  could  smuggle  it  in  somewhere  in  an  inferior  situation; 
so  when  Webster  said,  "  Go  to  the  Architecture  Room, 


180  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

and  try  your  hand  there,"  I  went  off  with  a  load  of  pict- 
ures, and  "The  Hunchback"  among  them.  Under  my 
orders  one  side  of  the  room  was  pretty  well  furnished ; 
my  friend's  picture  in  a  high  corner  where  I  trusted  it 
might  escape  the  eyes  of  my  companions.  When  Cooper 
made  his  appearance  with  "  Well,  how  are  you  getting 
on  ?"  "  Oh,  pretty  well,"  replied  I.  I  saw  the  old  hang- 
man take  a  rapid  glance  at  the  result  of  my  labors,  and 
as  rapidly  disappear,  to  return  almost  immediately  with 
Webster.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  Cooper  pointed  with 
his  measuring-rod  at  "The  Hunchback"  in  the  corner, 
and  then  turned  to  me  and  said,  "  It  won't  do ;  if  it  is 
to  be  hung  anywhere,  try  it  outside  in  the  square.  Put 
it  on  the  line  on  the  Nelson  Column ;  more  people  will 
see  it  there  than  they  will  here."  With  every  desire  to 
serve  my  friend,  the  fates — Cooper  and  Webster — were 
against  me,  and  "The  Hunchback"  retired  forever;  so 
did  the  author  of  his  being,  for  he  left  an  ungrateful  pro- 
fession, and  now  supplies  costumes  for  painting,  with  a 
greater  profit  to  himself  and  everybody  else  than  he  could 
have  achieved  by  the  practice  of  the  fine  arts.  I  felt  much 
disappointed  that  none  of  the  council  had  a  word  of  praise 
for  my  picture.  The  thing  was  a  novelty.  I  saw  them 
took,  but  not  a  wrord  of  any  kind  fell  from  them  by  which 
I  could  judge  of  their  opinions.  But  when  the  rest  of 
the  members  were  admitted  a  change  seemed  to  take 
place ;  several  of  the  most  eminent  were  loud  in  expres- 
sions of  approval ;  some  of  the  tongues  of  the  councillors 
were  loosened,  and  I  felt  assurance  of  success  to  be  "  doub- 
ly sure." 

Another  quotation  from  my  diary,  for  which  I  must 
apologize,  and  promise  to  quote  it  as  seldom  as  possible 
in  future  : 

"  April  28. — Drove  to  R.A.  at  a  quarter  to  twelve  ;  the 
royal  family  qame.  Eastlake  presented  me  to  the  queen. 
She  was  delighted  with  'Seaside.'  Wanted  to  buy  it — 
found  she  couldn't,  and  gave  me  a  commission  for  a  similar 
subject.  Everybody,  likes  it.  I  find  myself  and  Maclise 
the  guns  this  year." 

Maclise's  contribution  was  the  "Marriage  of  Strong- 


"BA.MSGATB  SANDS."  181 

bow,"  one  of  his  finest  works,  now  in  the  National  Gallery 
at  Dublin.  I  retired  from  the  presence  of  royalty  as  soon 
as  I  could  do  so  with  propriety;  but  not  before  I  had  ex- 
perienced the  truth  of  what  I  had  often  heard,  namely, 
that  the  prince  consort  and  the  queen  knew  quite  as 
much  about  art  as  most  painters  ;  and  that  their  treat- 
ment of  artists  displayed  a  gracious  kindness  delightful 
to  experience. 

Sir  C.  Eastlake,  whose  duty  it  was  to  attend  the  royal 
party  through  the  entire  exhibition,  left  them,  and  came 
to  me  while  I  was  standing  among  the  rest  of  the  council, 
to  inquire  into  whose  possession  the  "  Life  at  the  Seaside  " 
— as  it  was  called  in  the  catalogue — had  fallen.  "  Bought 
by  a  picture-dealer,"  said  I,  "  who  for  a  profit  would  sell 
it  to  her  majesty  or  anybody  else."  Eastlake  returned  to 
the  royalties  and  conveyed  my  intelligence  evidently,  for 
I  could  see  a  slight  shrug  of  the  royal  shoulders,  which 
said  quite  plainly,  "  Picture-dealer  !  Outrageous  profit,  of 
course."  A  few  days  solved  the  question,  for  Messrs. 
Lloyd,  hearing  of  the  queen's  desire  for  the  picture, 
opened  up  communication  through  the  usual  channel;  the 
result  being  the  acquisition  of  the  picture  by  the  queen 
for  the  price  Lloyds  had  paid  for  it;  their  profit  accruing 
from  the  loan  of  it  for  three  years  for  the  purpose  of  efl- 
graving.  That  part  of  the  business  was  most  admirably 
effected  by  Mr.  Sharp,  the  well-known  line  engraver;  and 
if  report  spoke  truth  and  the  Art  Union  of  London  paid 
£3000  for  the  plate,  Messrs.  Lloyd  must  have  received  a 
satisfactory  profit  on  this,  as  on  many  other  occasions.  I 
should  be  sorry,  indeed,  if  anything  I  say  of  these  gentle- 
men could  be  interpreted  into  an  insinuation  against  them, 
or  their  fair  and  legitimate  profits.  I  had  very  many  deal- 
ings with  the  firm,  and  invariably  found  them  liberal  and 
just.  On  one  occasion  only  they  allowed  strict  "business 
principles  "  to  prevail  so  far  as  to  damage  their  own  inter- 
ests. I  have  already  remarked  that  I  should  have  some- 
thing to  say  on  the  "  patron  "  subject,  in  the  matter  of  the 
oil-study  for  "Life  at  the  Seaside"  and  Mr.  Birt;  who  I 
must  say,  by  the  way,  had  behaved  to  me  with  much  kind- 
ness and  liberality  up  to  the  time  of  my  finishing  the 


182  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

sketch  for  Lira,  when  his  conduct  became  perfectly  un- 
accountable. I  completed  the  sketch  so  successfully  that 
one  of  the  Lloyds,  happening  to  call,  saw  it,  and  expressed 
a  great  desire  to  possess  it.  I  told  him — judging  from 
previous  transactions  with  Mr.  Birt — that  there  was  no 
chance  for  him,  as  I  considered  the  sketch  already  the 
property  of  that  gentleman. 

"  Well,"  said  Lloyd,  "  there  is  no  certainty  with  these 
gentlemen.  What  is  the  price  ?" 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty  guineas,"  said  I. 

"Consider  it  ours  if  Mr.  Birt  declines  it.  Does  he 
know  the  price  ?" 

"No." 

I  was  putting  a  few  last  touches  to  the  little  picture 
when  Mr.  Birt  called  to  see  it,  and,  sitting  behind  me, 
something  like  the  following  conversation  took  place  : 

"  What  a  beautiful  little  thing  you  have  made  of  that, 
Frith!" 

"  Glad  you  like  it,"  said  I.  "  Have  I  done  as  much  to 
it  as  you  expected  or  desired  ?" 

"Well,  don't  ye  see"  (a  favorite  phrase  repeated  con- 
stantly when  there  was  nothing  to  see),  "  I've  been  think- 
ing— er — er — that  it  is  too  small,  don't  y'see.  It  wouldn't 
hang  with  the  rest  of  my  pictures  satisfactorily — from  its 
size,  don't  y'see." 

I  don't  know  which  feeling  possessed  me  most  strongly, 
surprise  or  anger. 

"  Too  small !"  said  I.  "  What  on  earth  do  you  mean 
by  too  small  ?  The  thing  is  not  made  smaller  by  the  fin- 
ish put  upon  it  at  your  suggestion;  it  is  the  same  size  as 
it  was  when  you  bought  it." 

"  There,  there;  don't  get  out  of  temper." 

"  But  I  am  out  of  temper.  I  should  not  have  spent  a  lot 
of  time  on  the  thing  if  you  hadn't  suggested  it  being  more 
elaborated;  and  now  that  it  is  done,  and  you  say  well  done, 
you  pretend  it  is  too  small.  If  you  wanted  an  excuse  for 
not  taking  the  sketch,  you  should  have  found  a  better  one." 

"  There  you  go — why  get  in  a  passion  ?  Your  pictures 
are  'bank-notes'  (sic);  plenty  of  purchasers  for  such  as 
them — um — er — don't  y'see  ?" 


"  BAMSGATE  SANDS."  183 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  I,  "  I  know  I  need  not  trouble 
myself;  for,  as  you  decline  it,  the  picture  is  sold  already." 

"  Sold !"  very  excitedly.     "  Who  has  bought  it  ?" 

"  Lloyds,"  was  the  reply. 

"  At  what  price  ?" 

"Never  mind." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  I  can  make  it  all  right.  What  is  the 
price  ?" 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  guineas." 

"  Then  I  will  take  it,"  and  as  he  spoke  I  heard  the  rust- 
ling of  notes,  or  perhaps  the  paper  of  a  check. 

"  Indeed  you  won't,"  said  I.  "  I  promised  it  to  Lloyds 
if  you  refused  it,  and  Lloyds'  it  is." 

"  Nonsense!  here  is  the  money,  don't  y'see!" 

"  No,  I  don't  see.  I  only  wish  I  could  see  that  you 
have  acted  fairly;"  and  my  patron  and  I  parted  on  un- 
pleasant terms,  soon  after  forgotten,  and  on  both  sides 
forgiven. 

To  complete  the  history  of  this  little  sketch,  I  must  re- 
turn to  Messrs.  Lloyd,  then  the  proprietors  of  it.  My 
friend  Mr.  Miller,  owner  of  "The  Witch,"  and  other 
works  of  mine,  saw  the  "Sands"  sketch,  took  a  great 
fancy  to  it,  and  asked  me  if  I  thought  Lloyd  would  forego 
it  in  his  favor.  Mr.  Miller  was  then  forming  a  large  col- 
lection of  the  works  of  dead  and  living  painters,  and  while 
largely  employing  picture-dealers  to  sell  to  him,  or  to  pur- 
chase for  him,  the  works  of  departed  genius,  he  greatly 
preferred  buying  living  men's  pictures  from  the  artists 
who  had  produced  them.  I  went  to  Lloyd  and  told  him 
of  Miller's  wish  in  regard  to  the  sketch,  and  begged  him 
to  let  me  sell  it  to  Mr.  M.  for  the  price  settled  upon  be- 
tween Lloyd  and  me. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  price  is  two  hun- 
dred guineas.  Business  is  business.  Nobody  knows  that 
better  than  Mr.  Miller.  If  he  wants  the  sketch,  he  knows 
where  to  get  it." 

"  Is  business  always  business  ?"  inquired  I.  "  Are  there 
not  occasions  when  it  is  worth  while  to  sink  the  business 
question  ?  Don't  you  know  that  if  you  were  to  oblige 
Mr.  Miller  in  this  little  matter,  he  might  buy  pictures 


184  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

from  you,  or  get  you  to  buy  for  him  at  Christie's — that 
you  might  make  a  friend  of  him,  in  fact  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Lloyd,  "  that  is  just  what  I  don't  know.  As 
I  said  before,  business  is  business ;  and  two  hundred 
guineas  is  the  price  of  '  Ramsgate  Sands'  the  Little." 

I  conveyed  this  decision  to  my  friend,  who  paid  the  two 
hundred  guineas,  telling  me  at  the  same  time  that  he 
thought  Lloyd  had  perhaps  lost  more  than  fifty  pounds 
by  his  business  habits;  and  events  proved  the  truth  of  my 
idea  of  business  ;  for  Mr.  Miller  never  bought  another 
picture  from  Lloyd,  or  through  his  instrumentality. 

From  one  cause  or  another  I  found  I  wasted  a  great 
deal  of  time  after  the  exhibition  of  "  Ramsgate  Sands." 
I  was  abominably  idle,  or  occupied  on  trumpery  subjects 
unworthy  of  the  trouble  taken  in  reproducing  them.  I 
confess  with  humiliation  that  I  was  prevailed  upon  to 
paint  a  companion  to  the  vulgar  "Sherry,  Sir?"  to  be 
called  "  Did  you  Ring,  Sir  ?"  A  modest-looking  servant  is 
opening  a  door  and  looking  at  the  spectator  with  an  in- 
quiring expression.  I  don't  think  the  engraving  ever  sold, 
and  I  am  quite  sure  it  didn't  deserve  to  sell.  What  be- 
came of  the  picture,  and  some  others  I  did  at  that  time, 
will,  I  trust,  be  forever  mercifully  hidden  from  me. 

Towards  the  end  of  1854  I  found  myself  preparing  a 
sketch  of  a  child's  birthday.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  dining- 
room,  where  a  family  is  assembled  to  do  honor  to  a  small 
person  who  may  have  attained  the  mature  age  of  six,  and 
is  at  the  moment  an  object  of  attention  to  the  whole  party; 
for  the  ceremony  of  health-drinking  is  taking  place.  The 
heroine  sits  in  a  high  chair,  which  has  been  decorated  for 
the  occasion  with  a  wreath  of  flowers,  and  is  somewhat 
bewildered  by  her  uproarious  brothers  and  sisters,  whose 
wishes  for  many  happy  returns  of  the  day  are  screamed 
by  half  a  dozen  shrill  voices.  The  parent  pair  preside,  of 
course,  assisted  by  friends ;  while  the  grandfather  and 
grandmother  look  sympathetically  on. 

I  am  indebted  to  the  workhouse  for  some  very  good 
elderly  models.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  freedom  with 
which  artists  were  allowed  to  select  sitters  from  the 
"  asylum  of  poverty  "  no  longer  exists.  We  are  shut  out 


"RAMSGATE  SANDS."  185 

from  all  the  workhouses;  and  the  reason  given  us  is  the 
impossibility  of  the  "  inmates,"  whether  male  or  female, 
being  able  to  pass  the  public-house  on  their  homeward 
route,  without  leaving  there  much  of  their  sitting-money 
in  exchange  for  drink.  The  grandfather  in  "  The  Birth- 
day" was  a  man  who  had  seen  better  days,  and  found 
refuge  in  the  workhouse  for  his  old  age.  He  was  an  amus- 
ing old  fellow,  brimming  over  with  wise  saws  and  good 
advice.  He  warned  me  against  extravagance — not  that 
he  had  been  guilty  of  it,  oh,  no  !  "For,"  said  he,  "  if  I 
hadn't  been  a  very  careful  man,  I  should  have  been  in  the 
workhouse  long  before  I  was." 

The  masters  of  the  workhouses  that  I  visited  had 
always  been  willing  to  assist  in  allowing  me  to  select 
models  from  the  great  variety  of  characteristic  faces 
abounding  in  their  establishments,  till  the  old  ladies  and 
gentlemen  proved  beyond  all  doubt,  by  their  frequent 
habit  of  returning  both  drunk  and  abusive,  that  the  in- 
dulgence must  be  stopped. 

While  the  picture  of  "The  Birthday"  was  proceed- 
ing, I  occupied  myself  with  many  less  important  works. 
Among  the  best  were  a  study  called  "  Lovers,"  and  "  The 
Opera  Box."  In  reference  to  the  latter,  I  find  in  my  in- 
evitable diary: 

"May  3. — The  queen  came  to  the  Academy.  Prince 
Albert  asked  to  be  introduced  to  me,  and  complimented 
me  on  '  The  Opera  Box.'  " 

I  also  painted  a  public-house  sign,  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  I  assisted  in  doing  so;  for  Egg  worked  on  one 
side  of  it,  while  I  attended  to  the  other.  The  public-house 
was  called  "  The  Pilgrim."  On  Egg's  side  of  the  sign  the 
pilgrim,  with  cockle-shell  and  staff,  was  represented  knock- 
ing at  a  door ;  on  the  reverse — my  side — he  was  coming 
out  refreshed,  and  looking  up  thankfully  at  a  piece  of  sky, 
meant  to  pass  for  heaven.  This  work  of  art  was  a  present 
to  our  friend  Miller,  who  had  just  then  purchased  an  estate 
in  Lancashire,  for  which  he  was  said  to  have  paid  a  fabu- 
lous sum — as,  in  addition  to  many  hundreds  or  thousands 
of  acres,  a  whole  village  and  the  public-house  were  part 
of  the  bargain.  We  fully  expected  our  pilgrim  would 


186  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

have  been  allowed  to  take  the  place  always  allotted  to 
signs  at  inns — either  above  the  entrance-door,  or  in  the 
prouder  position  on  the  top  of  a  post,  where  he  might 
swing  and  creak  after  the  manner  of  his  kind.  But 
whether  from  respect  for  his  calling,  or  for  "  the  artistic 
merit  with  which  he  was  invested,"  he  was  taken  inside 
and  relegated  to  the  bar,  where  he  is  more  likely  to  retain 
his  "  carnations  "  than  if  they  were  exposed  to  wind  and 
weather.  Many  artists  have  painted  signs.  Millais  once 
painted  a  "  George  and  Dragon;"  David  Cox,  "  The  Oak  " 
at  Bettws-y-Coed;  and  George  Harlow  (a  pupil  of  Law- 
rence's, and  an  admirable  but  somewhat  eccentric  painter) 
left  a  sign  behind  him  at  Epsom,  having  had  the  audacity 
to  initial  it  in  one  corner  with  "T.  L.,  Greek  Street,"  where 
Lawrence  lived.  The  story  goes  that  Harlow  and  Sir  T. 
Lawrence  had  quarrelled  and  parted  in  anger;  the  younger 
painter  thinking  himself  the  aggrieved  party.  As  a  piece 
of  revenge,  he  painted  the  sign,  and  not  only  put  Law- 
rence's initials  and  address  on  it,  but  executed  it  exactly 
after  the  manner  of  that  artist.  By  this  he  is  said  to  have 
settled  his  bill;  and  he  certainly  annoyed  his  late  master, 
who,  on  meeting  the  wicked  sign-painter  in  Portland  Place, 
accosted  him  with, 

"  Sir,  if  this  were  not  a  long  street,  I  would  have  kicked 
you  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other." 

"  Would  you  ?"  said  Harlow.  "  Then  I  am  glad  it  is  a 
long  street." 

I  think  it  was  at  this  time  that  I  first  saw  Dickens  as  an 
actor.  He  played  the  principal  character  in  a  piece  called 
"  The  Frozen  Deep,"  written  by  my  old  friend  Wilkie 
Collins,  in  a  theatre  erected  in  the  garden  of  Tavistock 
House.  I  append  a  bill  of  the  play  on  the  following 
page. 

Carlyle  says  Dickens'  "  real  forte  was  acting,  not  writ- 
ing." Carlyle  has  said  many  wise  things,  and,  as  he  was 
human,  he  said  some  foolish  ones;  but  none,  surely,  more 
foolish  than  that  which  I  quote.  I  saw  Dickens  in  all  the 
characters  he  attempted,  and  I  heard  him  read  most  of  his 
works;  and  no  one  who  has  had  a  similar  experience  could 
be  blind  to  the  dramatic  power  with  which  he  realized  ev- 


TAVISTOCK  HOUSE  THEATRE. 

UN  DBS  THB  KAlfigBMBBT  OP  ML  CHA1LB8  PICONS. 

On  Thurtday,  January  Sth,  1857,  AT  A  QCARTKR  BEFORB  8  O'CLOCK,  will  be  presented 

AN   ENTIRELY   NEW 
ROMANTIC  DRAMA,  IN  THREE  ACTS,  BY  MR.  W1LK1E  COLLINS, 

CALLKD 

THE  FROZEN  DEEP. 

T\t  Jfaclintry  and  Projxrtia,  f,t  MR.  IEU.IKD,  of  Ou  Tktatrt  Royal,  A<Up»i.     T»«  Drtun  ky  Miuu. 
NITHIX  f/  ri/oUotinu  &r««,  IJaymarttt.    rtrrujnitr,  &I».  Wiuoic,  </  bU  Strand. 


THE  PROLOGUE  WILL  BE  DELIVERED  BY  MR  JOHX  FORSTER 
CAPTAIN  EBSWORTH,  of  The  Sea  Mew  .         .     MR.  EDWARD  PIOOTT. 
CAITAIX  HKLDIXG.  of  The  Wanderer       .    .     MR.  ALFRED  DICKK.SS. 
LIKtTEN'ANT  ('RAYFORD        ....     MR.  MARK  LKMOX. 

FRANK  ALDERSLEY MR.  WII.KIK  COLUXS. 

RICHARD  WARDOl'R MR.  CHARLKS  DICKK.NS. 

LIEUTEXANT  STF.VEXTOX MR.  Yorao  CHARLES. 

JOHN  WANT,  Ship't  Cook MR.  Aforsrrs  Eoo,  A.RA. 

BATF.SON)  TimnfTi.  &„   \i,^,  n~*'*  JMR-  Kow**o  HOGARTH. 

DARKER  )  T<eo  °f™e  *a  Utwt  ***•'    '     '  (MR.  FREDERICK  EvA.xa. 

(OFFICERS   AND   CRKWS  OF  TUB   SKA    Ml:W   AND   WANDERER.) 

MRS.  STEVKXTON  .  Miss  HKI.EX. 

ROSE  EB3WORTH Miss  KATB. 

LCCY  CRAYFOKR Misa  HOGAKTII. 

CLARA  BfRNHAM Miss  MART. 

NURSE  ESTHER. MRS.  WILLS. 

MAID        .  Miss  MARTHA. 


THE  SCENERY  AND  SCENIC  EFFECTS  OF  THE  FIRST  ACT,  BY  MR.  TELBW. 
THE  SCENERY  &  SCENIC  EFFECTS  OF  THE  SECOND  &  THIRD  ACTS,  By  Mr.  StaMelfl,  R.A. 

ASSISTED  BY  MR.  DANSON. 
THE  ACT-DROP,  ALSO  BY  Mr.  StaMeM,  R.A. 

AT  THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY,  HALF  AN  HOUR  FOR  REFRESHMENT. 

To  Conclude  with  tbo  Farco,  in  Two  Acts,  by  Mr.  UITKSTOXK,  called 

UNCLE  JOHN. 


UNCLE  JOHN     . 
NEPHEW  HAWK 
FRIEND  THOMAS 
EDWARD  EASEL 
ANDREW     . 
NIECE  HAWK 
ELIZA  . 
MRS.  COMFORT 


MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS 
MR.  WII.KIK  COLLINS. 

MR.    MA  UK    I.KMi'X. 

MR.  Aroi-irrrs  EGO,  A.RA. 
MR.  Yorxo  CHARLES. 
Miss  HOGARTH. 
Miss  KATE. 
Miss  MART. 


Musical  Composer  and  Conductor  of  the  Orchestra  —  Mr.  FRANCESCO 
BEBGEB,  who  will  preside  at  the  Piano. 


CARRIAGES  MAY  BE  ORDERED  AT  HALF-PAST  ELEVEN. 

COD   SAVE   THE   QUEEN! 


188  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

ery  character,  either  created  by  himself  or  others.  That, 
with  training  and  experience,  he  would  have  been  a  great 
actor,  there  is  no  doubt.  He  would  have  been  great  in 
whatever  career  he  might  have  pursued;  but  as  a  great 
actor  stands  to  a  great  writer  in  about  the  same  relation 
that  a  great  engraver  stands  to  a  great  painter,  I  submit 
that  Carlyle  was  mistaken,  unless  he  meant  to  imply  that 
Dickens  was  not  a  great  writer;  in  that  case,  like  most  of 
my  fellow-creatures,  I  am  at  issue  with  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"THE   DEEBT   DA Y." 

As  I  have  said  earlier  in  these  reminiscences,  the  shock 
that  the  first  sight  of  a  picture  in  the  exhibition  causes  to 
its  author  can  with  difficulty  be  imagined  by  artists  even, 
who  have  not  experienced  the  sensation;  the  influence  of 
the  surrounding  works,  the  glare  of  frames,  and  the  unac- 
customed light,  all  combine  to  produce  so  complete  a  trans- 
formation as  to  create  doubts  that  the  black,  dirty,  inky 
thing  that  affronts  you  can  be  the  clear,  bright,  effective 
production  that  was  so  admired  by  your  friends  and  your- 
self before  it  left  your  painting-room.  Wilkie  felt  the 
full  force  of  this,  for,  in  speaking  of  his  splendid  "  Chel- 
sea Pensioners  Reading  the  Gazette  Announcing  the  Battle 
of  Waterloo,"  he  says:  "This  is  the  only  instance  of  one 
of  my  pictures  which  has  not  suffered  terribly  by  the  ex- 
hibition." My  "  Birthday  "  was  a  very  painful  example 
of  the  effect  produced  by  its  surroundings;  being  hung  in 
a  well-known  and  dreaded  dark  part  of  the  large  room, 
and  being  a  low -toned  picture,  the  consequences  were 
dreadful.  I  can  never  forget  the  shock  of  the  first  sight 
of  it.  Some  one  endeavored  to  console  me  by  saying  that 
if  a  fine  picture  by  an  old  master  were  hung  in  a  modern 
exhibition  it  would  be  destroyed.  I  was,  and  am  still, 
inclined  to  agree  with  my  friend,  but  I  could  find  no  con- 
solation in  the  reflection;  and  I  very  soon  discovered  that 
my  new  effort  was  considered  a  great  falling  off  from 
"Ramsgate  Sands,"  some  kind  critics  going  so  far  as  to 
say  I  was  "  done  for;"  the  decline  had  begun,  speedily  to 
terminate  in  a  series  of  performances  disgraceful  to  my- 
self and  the  body  which  had  elected  me  so  prematurely. 
For  a  time  I  was  crushed,  but  a  reaction  soon  took  place. 
Though  the  subject  of  "  The  Birthday  "  offered  no  oppor- 


190  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

tunity  for  the  display  of  character  and  variety  of  incident 
that  distinguished  the  "  Sands,"  the  execution  of  the  pict- 
ure was  not  inferior  to  its  predecessor;  and  I  felt  sure  that, 
if  I  could  find  a  theme  capable  of  affording  me  the  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  an  appreciation  of  the  infinite  variety 
of  every-day  life,  I  had  confidence  enough  in  my  power  of 
dealing  with  it  successfully;  but  the  subject — then,  as  now 
and  ever,  the  chief  difficulty — where  was  I  to  find  a  scene 
of  such  interest  and  importance  as  to  warrant  my  spend- 
ing months,  perhaps  a  year  or  two,  in  representing  it? 
Until  the  year  of  which  I  write — 1854 — I  had  never  seen 
any  of  the  great  horse-races  for  which  England  is  so  fa- 
mous, and  my  first  experience  of  the  modern  Olympian 
games  was  at  Hampton ;  when  the  idea  occurred  to  me 
that,  if  some  of  the  salient  points  of  the  great  gathering 
could  be  grouped  together,  an  effective  picture  might  be 
the  result.  Mentioning  this  to  a  friend  with  whom  I  was 
walking  about  the  course,  he — or,  rather,  she,  for  my  friend 
was  a  lady — declared  her  belief  that  it  was  impossible  to 
represent  such  an  enormous  crowd  on  canvas  at  all,  with- 
out producing  confusion  worse  confounded.  As  we  were 
walking  along  the  course  we  met  with  an  incident  which, 
though  impossible  to  be  reproduced  in  a  picture,  may  be 
related  here.  My  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  my  attention 
alive  to  everything  surrounding  me  ;  and  while  watching 
a  group  of  gypsies,  who  were  eating  some  of  the  remains 
of  a  Fortnum  and  Mason  pie  (that  had  been  given  them) 
near  one  of  the  booths,  I  happened  to  look  into  the  booth 
itself.  It  was  evidently  one  of  the  cheap  dining-places  so 
common  on  race-courses;  for  a  long  table,  covered  with  a 
white  cloth,  with  plates  at  intervals,  stretched  from  the 
course  into  the  inner  recess  at  the  back.  There  were  no 
diners,  but  a  solitary  man  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table,  with- 
in a  few  feet  of  me,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  seem- 
ingly in  deep  reflection.  As  I  looked  he  suddenly  raised 
his  head,  seized  one  of  the  dinner-knives  from  the  table, 
and  made  a  furious  attempt  to  cut  his  throat.  The  knife 
was,  fortunately,  as  blunt  as  those  instruments  usually  are 
in  better  regulated  dining-rooms  than  the  booth  at  Hamp- 
ton, and  though  the  man  injured  himself  considerably,  judg- 


"TI1E   DERBY    DAY."  191 

ing  from  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his  face  and  the  awful  evi- 
dence on  his  beringed  hands,  I  did  not  believe  his  attempt 
tfas  fatal,  for  he  was  instantly  seized,  and  prevented  from 
repeating  the  attack.  I  heard  afterwards  that  he  had  been 
a  heavy  loser;  and  my  informant  said,  "The  fool  lost  his 
money,  but  he  won't  lose  his  life;  it  wouldn't  much  mat- 
ter if  he  did,  for  he  ain't  married,  and  he  is  an  awful  rip." 

My  first  visit  to  Epsom  was  in  the  May  of  1856 — Blink 
Bonnie's  year.  My  first  Derby  had  no  interest  for  me  as 
a  race,  but  as  giving  me  the  opportunity  of  studying  life 
and  character  it  is  ever  to  be  gratefully  remembered. 
Gambling-tents  and  thimble-rigging,  prick  in  the  garter 
and  the  three-card  trick,  had  not  then  been  stopped  by 
the  police.  So  convinced  was  I  that  I  could  find  the  pea 
under  the  thimble  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  backing  my 
guess  rather  heavily,  when  I  was  stopped  by  Egg,  whose 
interference  was  resented  by  a  clerical-looking  personage, 
in  language  much  opposed  to  what  would  have  been  an- 
ticipated from  one  of  his  cloth. 

"You,"  said  Egg,  addressing  the  divine,  "you  are  a 
confederate,  you  know;  my  friend  is  not  to  be  taken  in." 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  don't  you  call  names, 
and  don't  call  me  names,  or  I  shall  knock  your  d — d  head 
off." 

"  Will  you?"  said  Egg,  his  courage  rising  as  he  saw  two 
policemen  approaching.  "  Then  I  call  the  lot  of  you — 
the  Quaker  there,  no  more  a  Quaker  than  I  am,  and  that 
fellow  that  thinks  he  looks  like  a  farmer — you  are  a  parcel 
of  thieves!" 

"  So  they  are,  sir,"  said  a  meek-looking  lad  who  joined 
us;  "they  have  cleaned  me  out." 

"Now  move  off;  clear  out  of  this!"  said  the  police;  and 
the  gang  walked  away,  the  clergyman  turning  and  extend- 
ing his  arms  in  the  act  of  blessing  me  and  Egg. 

The  acrobats,  with  every  variety  of  performance,  the 
nigger  minstrels,  gypsy  fortune-telling,  to  say  nothing  of 
carriages  filled  with  pretty  women,  together  with  the  sport- 
ing element,  seemed  to  offer  abundant  material  for  the 
line  of  art  to  which  I  felt  obliged — in  the  absence  of  high- 
er gifts — to  devote  myself;  and  the  more  I  considered  the 


192  MY   AUTOBIOGKAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

kaleidoscopic  aspect  of  the  crowd  on  Epsom  Downs  the 
more  firm  became  my  resolve  to  attempt  to  reproduce  it. 
As  the  time  for  observation  was  too  short  to  allow  of 
sketching,  I  endeavored  to  make  such  mental  notes  as 
should  help  me  in  my  proposed  work.  No  time  was  lost 
on  my  return  home,  as  I  find  by  my  diary  that,  on  May 
21,  I  "began  a  rough  drawing  of  ' Race-course,' "  and  on 
the  24th  the  "  rough  drawing"  was  finished.  I  cannot  say 
I  have  ever  found  a  difficulty  in  composing. great  numbers 
of  figures  into  a  more  or  less  harmonious  whole.  I  don't 
think  this  gift,  or  knack,  can  be  acquired.  Many  artists, 
with  far  greater  powers  than  I  possess,  fail  utterly  when 
they  attempt  compositions  of  more  than  three  or  four  fig- 
ures, while  to  me  the  putting  together  of  a  small  number 
of  objects,  either  living  or  dead,  presents  difficulties  occa- 
sionally almost  insurmountable.  I  mention  this  as  a  warn- 
ing to  students  never  to  attempt  large  compositions  unless 
they  feel  they  have  the  "  gift "  for  work  of  the  kind,  the 
true  sign  being  the  facility  which  they  feel  in  its  accom- 
plishment. And,  granting  the  facility,  too  much  time  can 
scarcely  be  spent  in  making  preliminary  studies,  always 
from  nature,  of  separate  figures  and  groups.  I  arranged 
the  general  lines  of  the  composition  of  the  "  Derby  Day  " 
in  what  I  call  a  rough  charcoal  drawing,  as  noted  above; 
and  after  making  numbers  of  studies  from  models  for  all 
the  prominent  figures,  I  went  for  my  usual  seaside  holiday 
to  Folkestone,  and  employed  much  of  it  very  delightfully 
in  preparing  a  small,  careful  oil-sketch — with  color  and 
effect  finally  planned — so  that  when  I  chose  to  begin  the 
large  picture  I  found  the  "course  clear"  before  me. 

Mr.  Jacob  Bell  had  desired  me  to  paint  an  important 
picture  for  him  so  soon  as  I  found  a  subject  agreeable  to 
his  taste  and  my  own.  On  seeing  the  sketch  of  the  "  Derby 
Day  "  no  time  was  lost  in  deliberation,  for  I  was  commis- 
sioned to  paint  a  picture  five  or  six  feet  long  from  it,  at 
the  price  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds;  the  copyright  being 
reserved  to  me,  and  a  reasonable  time  conceded  for  the 
loan  of  the  picture  for  engraving.  Many  weeks  were 
spent  upon  the  large  sketch,  and  a  second  one,  now  in  the 
Bethnal  Green  Museum,  was  made,  in  which  I  tried  a  dif- 


"THE  DEBBY  DAY."  193 

ferent  arrangement  of  the  principal  group.  It  will  be 
evident,  then,  that  if  the  larger  work  failed,  it  would  not 
be  for  lack  of  preparation.  Before  the  picture  was  begun 
the  copyright  for  the  engraving  was  purchased  by  Mr. 
Garabart,  who  agreed  to  pay  fifteen  hundred  pounds  for 
it.  The  greater  part  of  the  year  1856,  after  exhibition  of 
"  The  Birthday,"  was  taken  up  by  small  pictures,  some  of 
them  of  a  very  pot-boiling  character,  and  none  worth 
noting  in  this  place,  or  anywhere  else.  I  may,  perhaps, 
except  the  picture  of  an  old  woman  accused  of  witchcraft, 
exhibited  several  years  before,  which  I  subjected  to  a 
treatment  that  I  recommend  for  adoption  under  similar 
circumstances.  After  seeing  the  picture  at  Preston  with 
a  "  fresh  eye,"  I  felt  I  could  greatly  improve  it,  and  some 
changes — with  the  owner's  sanction — I  proceeded  to  effect, 
at  a  sacrifice  of  much  time,  and  greatly  to  the  advantage 
of  the  picture. 

On  the  20th  of  January  my  diary  says  :  "  First  day's 
work  on  '  Race-course  ;'  a  long  journey,  but  I  go  to  it  with 
a  good  heart,  and,  if  I  live,  doubt  not  a  triumphant  issue. 
Sketched  in  some  of  the  figures  in  charcoal." 

I  wrote,  February  9:  "First  day's  painting  on  '  Race- 
course.' Miss  Mortimer  sat.  Did  two  heads  of  carriage- 
ladies  pretty  well." 

The  main  incident  in  the  "  Derby  Day  " — that  of  the 
acrobat  and  his  hungry  little  boy — is  too  well  known  to 
need  any  description  from  me;  as,  indeed,  are  all  the  vari- 
ous passages  of  the  picture,  from  the  fact  of  its  being 
prominently  before  the  public  in  the  form  of  engraving, 
as  well  as  from  its  position  in  the  National  Gallery.  In 
the  Drury  Lane  pantomime  I  found  the  acrobat  I  wanted, 
and,  after  the  usual  bargaining,  he  agreed  to  come  with 
his  little  son.  The  young  gentleman  was  possessed  with 
the  idea  that  sitting  meant  throwing  continual  somer- 
saults; but  that  performance,  amusing  enough,  did  not 
advance  my  picture;  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty  that 
I  stopped  his  going  head  over  heels  into  casts  and  draper- 
ies, to  the  confusion  of  both.  The  hands  of  the  youth — 
not  very  clean  to  begin  with — became  so  dirty  that  a  visit 
to  my  lavatory  was  suggested.  When  he  returned  to  us 
9 


194  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

he  said  :  "  Oh,  father!  such  a  beautiful  place  !  all  mahog- 
iny,  and  a  chany  basin  to  wash  in !"  One  of  my  children 
came  into  the  studio  with  a  message  :  "  Mamma  says,  papa, 
will  the  models  want  luncheon  ?" 

"  Mamma — papa  !"  said  the  little  acrobat,  with  con- 
tempt; "  why  don't  you  say  father  and  mother,  young  un  ?" 

"  Don't  you  be  cheeky !"  said  the  parent. 

I  made  a  fairly  satisfactory  beginning;  my  difficulties 
greatly  increased  by  the  models  being  unused  to  their 
work.  The  father,  indeed,  became  faint,  and  a  turn  in  the 
garden  was  necessary.  I  soon  saw  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  use  my  acrobats  in  painting  the  whole  of  their 
figures,  so  by  increased  payment  I  acquired  their  dresses, 
which  were  donned  by  those  to  "the  manner  born."  In 
such  a  complicated  affair  as  the  "  Derby  Day,"  models  of 
every  kind  were  wanted.  I  laid  my  children  and  friends 
largely  under  contribution,  as  well  as  professional  models, 
one  of  whom,  named  Bishop,  was  so  peculiar  a  character 
as  to  deserve  more  lengthened  notice.  He  was  a  good 
fellow  and  a  splendid  sitter,  but  a  little  doubtful  in  keep- 
ing his  appointments;  he  had  much  trouble  in  passing  a 
public-house  without  going  into  it  first,  and  he  sometimes 
stayed  long  and  forgot  his  engagements.  In  the  middle 
of  my  work  he  disappeared  for  six  weeks.  I  found  on 
inquiry  that  he  had  suddenly  left  his  lodgings,  and  his 
landlady  had  no  idea  what  had  become  of  him.  I  had 
almost  given  up  the  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  when  one 
morning,  to  my  great  delight,  he  put  in  an  appearance, 
looking  like  the  ghost  of  his  former  self. 

"  Why,  Bishop,"  said  I,  "where  on  earth  have  you  been? 
You  are  looking  very  bad ;  have  you  been  ill  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  I  haven't  had  much  to  eat  where  I've 
been — leastways  not  the  sort  I  like.  Skilly  don't  suit 
me." 

"  What's  skilly?"  said  I;  "  and  where  have  you  been  to 
get  it  ?" 

"  Skilly  is  what  they  gives  you  when  you  get  into  quod, 
and  that's  where  I've  been." 

"  Quod !"  said  I;  "  prison?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
have  been  in  prison?" 


"THE  DEBBY  DAY."  195 

"  Ah !  I  have  though,  sir;  and  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was. 
After  I  left  here  last  time  as  I  was  sitting,  I  goes  towards 
my  place,  and  just  there  by  Palace  Gardens  I  sees  a  crowd 
and  a  row  going  on,  and  I  never  can  see  nothing  like  that 
without  just  looking  to  see  what  it's  all  about;  and  there 
was  a  man  using  bad  language  to  Mr.  Webster,  which  I 
know  well,  and  a  nice  gentleman  he  is,  and  I've  often  set 
for  him.  So  I  pushes  in,  and  I  says, '  Now  what  is  it  ?'  I 
says;  '  what  have  you  got  to  say  to  this  here  gent,  which 
is  a  friend  of  mine  ?'  *  I'll  say  something  and  do  some- 
thing to  you  in  a  minute,'  says  a  fellow;  '  don't  you  inter- 
fere!' And  if  you'll  believe  me,  sir,  I  thought  he  was  go- 
ing to  hit  Mr.  Webster;  so  I  gives  him  one  for  himself. 
And  he  turns  to  me,  and  we  went  at  it  hammer  and  tongs; 
and  the  police  came  and  interfered,  as  they  always  does; 
and  they  laid  hold  of  me,  and  one  of  'em  says  I  hit  him. 
'You've  assaulted  me  in  the  exercise  of  my  dooty,'  he 
says,  'so  I  shall  run  you  in.'  And  run  me  in  he  did;  but 
it  took  more  than  him  to  do  it,  and  they  locked  me  up, 
and  next  morning  I  was  took  before  the  beak.  The  po- 
liceman swore  as  I  assaulted  him  in  the  execution  of  his 
dooty.  I  told  him  it  was  a  lie,  and  was  giving  him  a  little 
more  of  my  mind,  when  the  magistrate  says,  '  Silence, 
man  !'  he  says.  '  Go  to  prison  for  three  weeks.'  That 
made  me  wild,  and  I  up  and  says,  '  You  call  yourself  a 
beak  ?'  I  says.  '  Why,  you  ain't  up  to  the  situation ;  and 
I'll  tell  you  what,  I'm  a  artist's  model,  and  I  sits  for  them 
as  draws  for  Punch;  and  I'll  have  you  took  and  put  in 
Punch,  you  just  see  if  I  don't.'  The  beak  opened  his 
mouth  at  that.  He  ain't  often  spoke  to  like  that,  you  bet, 
sir;  and  after  a  bit  he  says,  'Now  you  will  go  to  prison 
for  six  weeks;'  and  that's  where  I've  been,  sir." 

"  And  very  sorry  you  must  have  felt  over  the  skilly  for 
your  impertinence  to  the  magistrate,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  wish  I  hadn't  a  said  it;  but  he  made  me 
that  wild." 

Bishop  was  a  favorite  model  of  Edwin  Land  seer's,  who 
told  me  the  following  story  of  him.  It  appeared  that  to 
the  profession  of  artist's  model,  Bishop  added  the  business 
of  a  pig-dealer.  He  had  tolerably  largo  conveniences  for 


196  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

the  prosecution  of  that  trade  at  his  "  place,"  in  the  form 
of  sties,  etc. — a  favorite  pig  now  and  then  sharing  the 
kitchen  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bishop.  As  the  object  of  the 
pig-dealer  was  to  fatten  his  pigs  for  the  market,  much 
pig's  food  was  necessary;  and  one  day,  when  he  was  sit- 
ting to  Landseer  and  bemoaning  the  difficulty  of  getting 
sufficient  "  wash  "  for  his  pigs,  a  bright  idea  seemed  to 
strike  him,  and  he  said  to  the  great  painter  : 

"  They  tell  me,  sir,  as  you  knows  the  queen." 

"  Know  the  queen  ?  Of  course  I  do.  Everybody  knows 
the  queen,"  said  Landseer. 

"  Ah  !  but,"  said  Bishop,  "  to  speak  to,  you  know,  sir, 
comfortable" 

"  Well,  I  have  had  the  honor  of  speaking  to  her  majesty 
many  times.  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  you  see  there  must  be  such  lots  of  pigwash 
from  Buckingham  Palace  and  them  sort  of  places  most 
likely  thrown  away;  and  my  missus  and  me  thinks  that 
if  you  was  just  to  tip  a  word  or  two  to  the  queen — which 
is  a  real  kind  lady  one  and  all  says — she  would  give  her 
orders,  and  I  could  fetch  the  wash  away  every  week  with 
my  barrer." 

In  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  picture  stands  a  lady  in 
a  riding-habit.  To  those  who  remember  the  beautiful 
Miss  Gilbert,  my  rendering  of  that  witty,  charming  creat- 
ure will  not  be  satisfactory.  The  face  was  perforce  in 
shadow,  and  in  profile,  thus  handicapping  me  terribly.  I 
venture  to  think  that  Landseer's  picture  was  scarcely  more 
likely  to  satisfy  the  many  admirers  of  my  lovely  model. 
In  that  work  she  was  represented  reclining  by  the  side  of 
a  horse,  whose  vices  were  supposed  to  have  been  charmed 
away  by  the  mysterious  influence  of  "  The  Pretty  Horse- 
Breaker,"  as  she  was  afterwards  christened.  Miss  Gilbert 
was  a  most  accomplished  horsewoman;  indeed,  she  told 
me  that  the  greater  part  of  her  life  had  been  passed  in  the 
saddle,  and  she  was  never  so  happy  as  when  galloping  for 
dear  life  after  a  pack  of  hounds.  In  return  for  her  kind- 
ness in  sitting  for -me,  I  promised  her  a  proof  engraving 
of  the  picture.  This  was  on  the  occasion  of  her  last  visit, 
and,  in  reply  to  my  telling  her  that  she  would  have  to  wait 


"THE  DERBY  DAT."  197 

at  least  three  years  for  the  print,  she  said,  "Ah!  never 
mind.  I  shall  soon  ride  the  time  away." 

Poor  girl!  She  lived  to  receive  her  engraving;  but  she 
had  done  with  time;  rapid  consumption  had  seized  her, 
and  death  came  in  the  prime  of  her  youth  and  beauty.  I 
had  to  thank  my  friend  Mr.  Tattersall  for  the  introduction 
to  Miss  Gilbert,  and  for  other  valuable  assistance  during 
the  progress  of  my  picture.  The  owner,  Mr.  Bell,  was 
also  very  useful  to  me  in  procuring  models.  Few  people 
have  a  more  extensive  acquaintance,  especially  among  the 
female  sex,  than  that  possessed  by  Jacob  Bell;  and  what 
seemed  singular  was  the  remarkable  prettiness  that  dis- 
tinguished nearly  all  these  pleasant  friends.  I  had  but  to 
name  the  points  required,  and  an  example  was  produced. 

"  What  is  it  to  be  this  time  ?"  he  would  say.  "  Fair  or 
dark,  long  nose  or  short  nose,  Roman  or  aquiline,  tall  fig- 
ure or  small  ?  Give  your  orders." 

The  order  was  given,  and  obeyed  in  a  manner  that 
perfectly  astonished  me.  I  owe  every  female  figure  in  the 
"  Derby  Day,"  except  two  or  three,  to  the  foraging  of  my 
employer. 

"  What  kind  of  person  do  you  want  for  that  young 
woman  with  the  purse  in  her  hand,  listening  to  that 
spooney  fellow — lover,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  should  like  a  tall,  fair  woman.  Handsome,  of 
course,"  I  replied. 

"  All  right.  I  know  the  very  thing.  Been  to  the 
Olympic  lately?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  go  and  see  Miss  II .  I  don't  know  her. 

Hear  she  is  charming  in  all  ways.  Sure  she  will  sit.  You 
go  and  see  her.  I'll  manage  the  rest." 

To  the  theatre  I  went,  and  found  the  lady  all  that  could 
be  desired;  and  in  a  few  days  she  made  her  first  appear- 
ance in  my  painting-room.  Miss  H was  a  very  de- 
lightful person,  and  she  sat  admirably.  She  was  undeni- 
ably handsome;  but  I  failed  miserably,  indeed  unaccount- 
ably, in  my  attempts — again  and  again  renewed — to  re- 
produce the  charm  that  was  before  me.  At  last  I  felt  that 
I  must  cither  rub  out  what  I  had  done  and  seek  another 


198  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

model,  or  let  my  work  go  with  a  very  serious  blot  in  the 
centre  of  it.  I  did  not  hesitate  long,  for,  after  a  last  and 
futile  attempt,  I  erased  the  figure;  and  repainted  it  from 
one  of  my  own  daughters.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  I 

waited  till  Miss  H had  departed  before  taking  a  step 

that  I  knew  "would  be  very  annoying  to  her  ;  and  it  cost 
me  many  pangs  before  I  could  persuade  myself  that  it 
was  my  duty  to  inflict  any  amount  of  pain  upon  that  lady 
and  myself,  rather  than  allow  a  serious  blemish  to  disfigure 

my  work.     Miss  H was  an  excellent  actress;  but  she 

surpassed  herself  by  the  passion  she  displayed  when  she 
saw  the  "  Derby  Day  "  in  my  room  on  its  completion.  We 
were  alone,  fortunately  perhaps.  I  felt  like  a  guilty  cul- 
prit about  to  be  sentenced. 

"  Why,  what  is  this  ?  Great  Heaven  !  you  have  rubbed 
me  out !  This  is  the  most  insul —  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  The   truth  is,  Miss   H ,  I  am  truly  sorry,  but  I 

found—" 

"  And  if  I  had  given  place  to  something  better — but  to 
be  displaced — to  be  rubbed  out  for  such  a  baby-faced  chit 
as  that—" 

"  Well,  Miss  H ,  I  couldn't.     It's  my  fault.     I  tried 

very  hard,  as  you — 

"  And  all  the  people  at  the  theatre  knew  of  my  sitting 
for  the  thing,  and  I  shall  be  laughed  at." 
"  Oh  !  I  hope  not.     I  will  explain,"  said  I. 
"  Why  didn't  you  say  at  first  that  I  was  of  no  use  to  you, 
instead  of  putting  me  to  the  trouble  of  coming  here  and 
exposing  myself  to  the  sneers  of  the  —  oh  !  it's  enough  to 
make  one's  blood  boil !" 

It  evidently  was,  and  the  only  way  for  me  was  to  stand 
by  till  the  boiling  was  over;  so  I  betook  myself  to  silence, 
and  I  listened  to  a  storm  of  well-deserved  abuse,  delivered 
in  a  style  that  would  have  "  brought  down  the  house,"  if 
the  audience  could  have  appreciated  true  passion.  Miss 
II had  every  reason  for  indignation,  as  I  fully  acknowl- 
edged to  her  when  she  became  cooler;  and  eventually  I 
think  she  must  have  forgiven  me,  for  she  accepted  a  proof 
of  the  engraving  as  a  mark  of  my  contrition.  If  these 
lines  should  meet  the  eye  of  my  kind  but  unfortunate  sit- 


"THE  DERBY  DAY."  199 

ter,  I  hope  she  will  believe  that  to  this  hour  I  regret  the 
annoyance  I  occasioned  her.  I  remember  telling  the  mis- 
adventure to  Miss  Gilbert,  and  explaining  to  her  the  neces- 
sity for  allowing  nothing  to  interfere  with  the  successful 
production  of  a  work  of  art,  and  closing  my  observations 
by  an  illustration,  for  I  said: 

"Now  take  your  own  figure  there,"  pointing  to  the 
lady  in  the  riding-habit.  "  If  I  bad  failed  in  it  to  the  ex- 
tent I  did  with  Miss  H 's,  I  would  have  rubbed  it  out 

without  hesitation." 

"Would  you?" replied  the  lady;  "then  I  would  without 
hesitation  have  put  my  parasol  through  your  picture,  and 

if  Miss  II had  served  you  right  she  would  have  done 

the  same." 

My  determination  to  keep  the  horses  as  much  in  the 
background  of  my  "  Derby  Day  "  as  possible  did  not  arise 
from  the  fact  of  my  not  being  able  to  paint  them  properly, 
so  much  as  from  my  desire  that  the  human  being  should 
be  paramount.  Still,  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  the  steeds 
and  their  riders  altogether.  There  I  found  my  friend 
Tattersall  of  great  service.  He  procured  an  excellent  type 
of  the  jockey  class — a  delightful  little  fellow,  who  rode  a 
wooden  horse  in  my  studio  with  all  the  ease  of  rein  and 
whip  that  would  have  distinguished  a  winner  of  the  Derby. 
He  surprised  me  by  his  endurance  of  a  painful  attitude — 
that  of  raising  himself  in  his  stirrups  and  leaning  forward, 
in  the  manner  of  his  tribe.  This  he  would  do  for  an  hour 
at  a  stretch.  I  find  my  diary  says: 

"Bundy"  (the  name  of  the  jockey)  "sat  for  the  last 
time;  finished  the  two  jockeys,  and  one  in  the  distance  in 
his  great-coat;  and  the  little  chap  and  I  shook  hands.  I 
to  work;  he  to  the  Marquis  of  Something  at  Chantilly." 

Before  he  left  me  he  informed  me  that  he  would  rather 
ride  the  wildest  horse  that  ever  lived  than  mount  the 
wooden  one  any  more.  I  am  indebted  to  Herring,  one 
of  the  best  painters  of  the  race-horse  I  have  ever  known, 
for  great  assistance  in  the  very  small  share  the  high-met- 
tled racer  has  in  my  work.  I  grieve  to  say  that  my  little 
jockey  friend  was  soon  after  killed  by  a  fall  from  his 
horse  in  France. 


200  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

My  diary  for  1857  shows  day  after  day  of  incessant  work, 
with  exceptions  of  enforced  idleness  through  foggy  and 
dark  weather.  For  some  time  before  that  of  which  I 
write,  I  had  ceased  to  paint  on  Sundays,  believing  that 
one  day  in  seven  was  required  for  rest.  I  suppose  there 
never  was  a  more  industrious  painter,  or  one  who  pro- 
duced a  greater  quantity  of  good  work,  than  my  old  friend 
Sydney  Cooper,  R.A.,  whom  I  once  heard  say  in  reply  to 
an  inquiry  as  to  whether  he  painted  on  Sundays: 

"  No.  If  I  can't  get  my  living  in  six  days,  I  shouldn't 
manage  it  in  seven." 

And  putting  aside  graver  reasons  for  not  pursuing  the 
habit,  I  would  advise  all  students  to  set  apart  one  day 
in  seven  for  rest.  I  attribute  my  long -continued  good 
health  to  my  perseverance  in  the  practice  that  I  recom- 
mend. 

After  fifteen  months'  incessant  labor  the  "  Derby  Day  " 
was  finished  and  sent  to  the  Exhibition  of  1858.  It  is 
difficult  to  put  one's  finger  on  the  precise  spot  where  con- 
fidence merges  into  conceit.  I  acknowledge  any  amount 
of  conviction  that  I  was  doing  an  out-of-the-way  thing,  as 
the  letters  that  lam  about  to  quote  will  prove;  but  I  deny 
the  conceit,  if  I  should  be  charged  with  it.  And  when  such 
men  as  Maclise  and  Landseer  used  expressions  of  praise 
warm  enough  to  have  tried  stronger  heads  than  mine,  I 
felt  my  confidence  in  the  success  of  my  work  was  fully 
justified.  As  an  instance  of  generous  appreciation  I  ap- 
pend a  note  from  Maclise: 

"14  RUSSELL  PLACE,  FJTZROT  SQUARE, 

"  March  25, 1858. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRITH, — It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  join  you  at  the  din- 
ner hour  on  Monday. 

"  I  imagine  you  still  very  busy  at  your  work  "  ("  Derby  Day  "),  "  but  only 
dropping  in  here  and  there  little  gemlike  bits  into  the  beautiful  mosaic 
you  have  so  skilfully  put  together. 

"  Believe  me,  faithfully  yours,  DANL.  MACLISE." 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  to  my  sister, 
with  whom,  since  my  mother's  death,  I  have  kept  up  a  con- 
stant correspondence.  Under  date  March  6,  I  find  this 
mixture  of  jest  and  earnest: 


"THE  DERBY  DAY."  201 

"  We  shall  be  delighted  to  sec  you  at  any  time  that  you  choose  to  honor 
us  with  a  visit ;  and  if  you  wish  to  see  the  famous  picture  at  all,  you  must 
see  it  in  my  own  place,  for  you  won't  be  able  to  get  near  it  in  the  exhibi- 
tion. Some  people  go  so  far  as  to  say  '  It  is  the  picture  of  the  age,'  and  no 
mean  judges  are  they.  However,  the  die  is  cast,  and  though  I  shall  work 
incessantly  up  to  the  last  moment,  nothing  that  I  can  do  now  will  make  or 
mar  my  work ;  and  if  it  is  not  pre-eminently  successful,  thus  lifting  my 
reputation  into  the  seventh  heaven,  I  shall  burn  my  books,  and  fling  my 
wand  into  fathomless  ocean." 

Again,  under  date  May  9,  when  the  picture  was  on  the 
walls  in  Trafalgar  Square,  I  wrote: 

"  When  the  queen  came  into  the  large  room,  instead  of,  as  she  invariably 
did,  looking  at  the  pictures  in  their  order  according  to  the  catalogue,  she 
went  at  once  to  mine;  and  after  a  little  while  sent  for  me  and  compli- 
mented me  in  the  highest  and  kindest  manner.  She  said  it '  was  a  wonder- 
ful work,'  and  much  more  that  modesty  prevents  ray  repeating.  Now  if  I 
were  of  a  conceited  turn,  I  might  be  in  danger ;  but  though  I  plead  guilty 
to  a  good  deal  of  confidence,  I  am  not  guilty  of  conceit,  at  any  rate  in  my 
secret  soul ;  for  I  have  the  meanest  opinion  of  my  own  powers  compared  with 
those  '  glorious  old  lamps '  that  have  survived  criticism,  and,  as  Sass  used 
to  say, '  received  the  approbation  of  ages.' " 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  prince  consort  surprised 
me  exceedingly  by  his  intimate  knowledge  of  what  I  may 
call  the  conduct  of  a  picture.  He  told  me  why  I  had  done 
certain  things,  and  how,  if  a  certain  change  had  been 
made,  my  object  would  have  been  assisted.  How  the 
masses  of  light  and  shade  might  still  be  more  evenly  bal- 
anced, and  how  some  parts  of  the  picture  might  receive 
still  more  completion.  I  put  many  of  the  prince's  sugges- 
tions to  the  proof  after  the  close  of  the  exhibition,  and  I 
improved  my  picture  in  every  instance.  There  were  sev- 
eral little  princes  and  princesses  in  the  royal  party;  and  I 
remember  one  little  boy  saying,  the  moment  he  looked  at 
the  picture: 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  never  saw  so  many  people  together 
before  !" 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  the  queen.  "  You  have  often  seen 
many  more." 

"  But  not  in  a  picture,  mamma." 

Again  the  inevitable  diary  says: 

"  May  2. — Private  view.     All  the  people  crowd  about 
the  '  Derby  Day.' " 
9* 


202  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

"  May  3. — Opening  day  of  the  exhibition.  Never  was 
such  a  crowd  seen  round  a  picture.  The  secretary  obliged 
to  get  a  policeman  to  keep  the  people  off.  He  is  to  be 
there  from  eight  in  the  morning.  Bell  applies  to  the 
council  for  a  rail,  which  will  not  be  granted." 

Since  the  foundation  of  the  Academy,  in  1768,  it  had 
only  once  been  found  necessary  to  protect  a  popular  pict- 
ure from  possible  injury  by  the  presence  of  too  eager  spec- 
tators, and  that  occurred  in  1822,  when  Wilkie  exhibited 
his  famous  picture  of  "  The  Chelsea  Pensioners  Reading 
the  Gazette  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo."  Readers  of 
Wilkie's  life  may  remember  his  extreme  difficulty  in  per- 
suading the  R.A.  authorities  to  afford  him  the  protection 
his  work  so  much  needed;  they  were  naturally  reluctant 
to  mark  a  particular  work  with  such  an  invidious  proof  of 
its  popularity.  Academic  nature  seems  to  be  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever;  for,  inferior  though  my 
work  was  in  all  respects  to  Wilkie's,  it  was  as  much  in 
need  of  protection,  and  I  found  the  same  difficult}^  in  pro- 
curing it,  as  the  following  letters  will  show.  Mr.  Bell 
writes: 

"May  4,  1858. 

"Mr  DEAR  FRITH,  —  I  went  to  the  R.A.  this  afternoon  about  five.  The 
pressure  nad  to  some  extent  subsided,  but  there  was  a  policeman  still  in 
attendance,  and  people  three  or  four  deep  before  the  picture.  Those  in 
front  had  their  faces  within  three  or  four  inches  of  the  canvas.  The  nat- 
ure of  the  picture  requires  a  close  inspection  to  read,  mark,  learn,  nnd  in- 
wardly digest  it;  and  from  what  I  have  seen,  I  think  it  not  unlikely  that 
some  of  the  readers  will  leave  their  mark  upon  it,  unless  means  be  taken 
to  keep  them  at  a  respectful  distance.  Yours  truly, 

"JACOB  BELL." 

Again,  on  the  following  day  he  writes: 

"I  called  at  the  R.A.  this  afternoon  at  four  o'clock,  as  I  was  passing, 
and  found  the  people  smelling  the  picture  like  bloodhounds.  In  the  Nation- 
al Gallery,  where  I  went  next  to  see  the  new  old  masters,  I  found  post  and 
rail  very  suitable  for  the  protection  of  works  of  art." 

Then  came  a  formal  appeal  to  the  president  and  council: 

"  GENTLEMEN,  —  I  have  just  left  the  Royal  Academy,  where  I  found  Mr. 
Frith's  picture  in  great  danger  of  injury  from  the  pressure  of  the  crowd. 
It  has  been  found  necessary  to  place  it  under  the  charge  of  a  policeman, 
who  can  with  difficulty  preserve  it  from  contact  with  the  arms  and  faces  of 


"THE  DERBY  DAY."  203 

those  in  the  front  rank,  who  are  pressed  forward  by  those  behind  them. 
My  object  in  addressing  you  is  to  request,  as  a  great  favor,  that,  if  the  laws 
of  the  Royal  Academy  permit,  a  rail  may  be  placed  before  it  for  the  pro- 
tection of  the  picture.  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir?, 

"JACOB  BKLL." 

This  appeal  was  successful,  and  the  needed  protection 
supplied,  as  my  diary  shows  by  entry  on 

"May  7. — To  the  exhibition.  Knight  tells  me  a  rail  is 
to  be  put  round  my  picture.  Hooray!" 

"  May  8. — Couldn't  help  going  to  see  the  rail,  and  there 
it  is,  sure  enough;  and  loads  of  people." 

Apropos  of  this,  I  may  insert  the  following  bantering 
letter  to  my  sister: 

"  You  must  really  come  to  town,  if  it  is  only  to  see  a  rarity  in  the  annals 
of  exhibitions — no  less  than  an  iron  rail  round  the  'Derby  Day,'  an  event 
that  has  occurred  once  in  ninety  years.  I  mean  once  before  this  once,  and 
that  was  when  Wilkie  exhibited  'The  Chelsea  Pensioners,'  in  1822.  On 
that  occasion,  thirteen  of  the  elderly  academicians  took  to  their  beds  in 
fits  of  bile  and  envy ;  and  though  a  few  recovered  by  steadily  refusing 
medicine,  they  never  were  in  good  health  afterwards.  This  calamity  was 
the  cause  of  a  resolution  on  the  part  of  the  academicians,  in  full  conclave, 
that  so  invidious  a  distinction  should  never,  under  any  circumstances,  be 
made  again ;  and  when  Messrs.  Bell  and  Gambart,  the  proprietors  of  the 
'Derby  Day'  and  the  copyright  thereof,  took  oath  and  said  they  verily  be- 
lieved their  property  was  in  danger,  the  secretary  pointed  to  the  towers  of 
Westminster  Abbey,  just  visible  through  the  windows,  under  which  repose 
the  ashes  of  those  distinguished  men  who  fell  victims  to  Wilkie,  and  then 
solemnly  asked  if  a  similar  sacrifice  was  to  be  offered  to  Frith. 

" '  No,'  said  that  official ;  '  rather  let  the  picture  be  scattered  to  the  winds 
of  Trafalgar  Square ;  but  be  not  alarmed,  we  have  had  popular  works  here 
before.  There  have  been  trifles  by  Landseer  and  Wilkie  against  which 
the  public  nose  has  been  as  severely  rubbed  as  it  is  likely  to  be  against 
the  "Race-course;"  and  I  assure  you,  on  the  part  of  the  president  and 
council,  that  though  a  rail  was  once  put  round  a  picture  of  distinguished 
merit  and  popularity,  such  an  "unfair  distinction"  will  never  be  made 
again.' 

"  So  spake  the  secretary ;  but  at  last  it  was  found  necessary  (to  be  seri- 
ous, I  know  not  how  the  matter  came  about)  to  risk  the  lives  of  the  envious 
old  boys,  for  when  I  went  down  to  the  rooms  yesterday,  I  found  my  pre- 
cious work  protected  by  a  stout  iron  railing,  against  which  liroke  a  tide  of 
anxious  humanity.  The  oldest  frequenter  of  exhibitions  (like  the  oldest 
inhabitant,  that  you  have  heard  of)  says  the  like  of  this  attraction  was 
never  seen ;  and  I  must  say,  also,  that  in  all  my  experience  I  never  wit- 
nessed anything  like  the  conduct  of  the  crowd.  The  man  who  takes  the 
money  at  the  doors  says  the  receipts  arc  some  hundreds  more  than  usual, 


204  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

but  that  is  owing  to  the  generally  attractive  character  of  the  exhibition. 
You  know  I  told  you  I  should  win  the  trick  this  time,  and  I  have  won  it, 
my  dear,  without  the  slightest  mistake." 

On  the  whole,  my  brother  artists  were  complimentary, 
but  there  were  exceptions.  One  academician  of  what  is 
called  the  "  high-aim  "  school,  by  which  is  meant  a  pecul- 
iar people  who  aim  high  and  nearly  always  miss,  and  who 
very  much  object  to  those  who  aim  much  lower  and  hap- 
pen to  hit — he  said  to  me,  looking  at  the  crowd  round  my 
picture: 

"That  thing  of  yours  is  very  popular;  but  I  intend  to 
exhibit  a  work  next  year  that  will  have  a  greater  crowd 
about  it  than  that." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I.     "  And  what  is  your  subject  ?" 

"Well,  I  have  not  quite  fixed  on  the  title  yet;  but  I 
think  I  shall  call  it  '  Monday  Morning  at  Newgate  ' — the 
hanging  morning,  you  know.  I  shall  have  a  man  hanging, 
and  the  crowd  about  him.  Great  variety  of  character,  you 
know.  I  wonder  you  never  thought  of  it." 

Another  of  my  academic  brethren  who  had  seen  the 
picture  in  my  studio,  and  had  nearly  smothered  me  with 
praise  of  it  to  my  face,  was  heard  to  deliver  his  real  opinion 
to  a  friend  in  the  exhibition,  to  whom  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  evidences  of  the  attractiveness  of  the  picture:  "There 
is  no  hope  for  art  in  this  country  when  the  people  are  so 
besotted  as  to  crowd  round  such  a  thing  as  that." 

It  is  very  unusual  to  see  livery  servants  in  the  exhibi- 
tion. As  a  rule,  their  interest  in  art  is  not  strong  enough 
to  induce  them  to  part  with  the  necessary  shilling  for  ad- 
mission. A  friend  of  mine  was  startled  one  day  by  seeing 
two  grooms,  who  had  either  been  sent  by  their  master,  or 
of  their  own  motive  had  evidently  come  to  see  the  "  Derby 
Day,"  for  they  made  their  way  straight  to  it;  and  without 
looking  at  any  other  picture  they  entered  the  crowd  and 
passed  slowly  by  the  picture,  eagerly  studying  it.  My 
friend,  curious  to  hear  their  comments,  followed  them 
closely.  Not  a  word  was  said  till  they  had  thoroughly 
examined  the  picture,  when  one  exclaimed  to  the  other: 
"  Call  that  the  Derby  ?  It's  d— d  hot!  Come  and  have  a 
drink." 


"THE  DERBY  DAY.**  205 

I  suppose  there  is  scarcely  a  man  in  a  position  that  can 
be  called  public  who  has  escaped  hearing  something  un- 
pleasant about  himself  from  a  critic  who  is  ignorant  of  the 
personality  of  the  assailed. 

Sir  Francis  (then  Mr.)  Grant,  the  well-known  portrait- 
painter,  told  me  that  he  found  himself  sitting  next  to  an 
old  gentleman  at  a  large  dinner-party  just  after  the  open- 
ing of  the  annual  exhibition,  when  the  conversation,  to 
one's  sorrow,  is  sure  to  bristle  with  allusions  to  the  ex- 
hibits. From  his  neighbor's  first  question,  Grant  dis- 
covered his  ignorance  of  the  name  of  his  fellow-guest. 

"Are  you  fond  of  pictures,  sir?"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man. 

"  Yes,"  said  Grant;  "  if  they  are  good  ones." 

"  Then  take  my  advice,  and  don't  throw  away  a  shilling 
on  the  exhibition,  for  you  won't  find  any  there." 

"  Oh!  but  I  have  been  to  the  exhibition,  and  I  can't 
quite  agree  with  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  spent  your  time  better  than  in  study- 
ing modern  art  ?"  said  the  old  critic.  "  I  have  had  a  long 
experience  of  it — indeed,  I  practise  it  a  little — and  I  can 
assure  you  there  is  not  a  good  picture  in  the  place.  The 
portraits  are  detestable;  and  I  really  think  the  Academy 
should  have  a  separate  room  entirely  for  those  wretched 
productions — a  kind  of  'Chamber  of  Horrors,'  you  know, 
like  the  wax-works  in  Baker  Street." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  said  Grant.  "  They  seemed 
to  me  rather  above  the  average." 

"  No,  I  assure  you,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  couldn't  find  a 
decent  thing  among  them;  and  as  for  those  portraits  by 
Grant,  they  seem  as  if  he  had  painted  them  with  white- 
wash." 

This  was  said  in  a  loud  tone,  and  Grant  observed: 

"  I  think  you  should  be  a  little  more  cautious  in  what 
you  say,  for  Mr.  Grant  might  be  present;  in  fact  he  is  here 
— he  is  sitting  next  to  you." 

"  Good  gracious !  But  how — what "  (looking  to  a  lady 
on  his  right) — "  are  you— eh  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Grant. 

When  the  "  Derby  Day  "  was  in  the  exhibition,  I  had  a 


206  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

somewhat  similar  experience.  I  took  a  lady  in  to  dinner, 
to  whom  I  was  introduced,  of  course;  but  she  could  not 
have  heard  my  name,  for  she  asked  me  exactly  the  same 
question  as  the  old  gentleman  had  asked  Grant,  and,  as 
well  as  I  can  remember,  I  made  a  similar  reply.  My  lady 
friend  then  proceeded  to  enlighten  me  as  to  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  many  of  the  more  notable  pictures  in  the  ex- 
hibition; and  she  showed  quite  a  remarkable  knowledge 
of  the  good  and  bad  qualities  of  the  various  works.  She 
was  really  a  very  sincere  lover  of  art;  and  from  my  con- 
stantly agreeing  with  nearly  all  she  said,  she  was  under 
the  impression  that  I  was  deriving  knowledge  that  would 
help  me  at  other  dinner-tables,  besides  opening  my  mind 
to  previously  unobserved  beauties.  After  giving  me  a  sort 
of  lecture,  she  said,  suddenly,  "  By  the  way,  there  is  a  pict- 
ure which  we  have  not  discussed  yet.  You  must  have 
seen  it — I  mean  that  representation  of  a  race-course.  I 
hope  we  shall  agree  in  our  estimate  of  that,  as  we  have  in 
so  many  instances.  Now,  to  me,  what  is  called  the  '  Derby 
Day '  is  in  a  very  low  style  of  art — it  is  vulgar.  Perhaps 
you  may  say  such  a  scene  is  necessarily  vulgar.  There  I 
should  join  issue  with  you.  A  refined  painter  would  have 
elevated  the  scene,  have  filled  it  with  life  and  character; 
have  given  grace  and  beauty  even  to  women  who  go  to 
Epsom.  All  these  qualities  are  conspicuous  by  their  ab- 
sence in  Mr.  Frith's  picture.  It  is  ill-drawn,  flat,  and  poor 
in  the  painting  of  it,"  etc.,  etc. 

As  my  critic  ran  on  I  felt  the  sincerest  pity  for  her,  for 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  I  must  confess  myself  to  be  the 
author  of  the  maligned  production;  and  this  I  did  in  a 
bungling  fashion  enough,  for  I  said:  "I  am  sorry  you 
don't  like  it,  for  I  painted  it." 

Never,  never  shall  I  forget  that  poor  lady's  distress.  I 
tried  to  help  her,  I  forget  how,  but  I  know  I  tried.  Then 
she  was  unfortunate,  for  she  fled  from  her  colors. 

"  Of  course,"  she  stuttered,  "  I  really  had  no  idea — but 
then,  of  course,  it  is  a  very  clever  picture;  but  I  confess  I 
don't  like  the  subject." 

"No  more  do  I,"  I  declared;  "but  then  you  must  not 
quarrel  with  copper  because  it  is  not  gold.  If  I  attempted 


"TUK    DEBBY    DAY."  207 

history,  or  what  you  call  high  art,  I  should  make  a  greater 
fool  of  myself  than  I  am  generally  considered  to  be." 

"Of  course  you  would." 

And  with  this  remark  our  art  talk  closed.  We  after- 
wards became  fast  friends,  and  my  lady  critic  became  a 
frequent  visitor  on  Show-Sundays;  and  though  she  had  no 
sympathy  with  my  art,  being  tainted  with  pre-Raphaelit- 
ism,  she  often  showed  as  much  acuteness  in  her  remarks 
as  many  a  professional  critic. 

One  more  example  of  sincere  opinion,  and  I  leave  the 
subject.  My  friend  Egg,  R.A.,  was  a  constant  exhibitor, 
so  long  as  his  delicate  health  would  permit;  and  one  private- 
view  day  he  was  seen  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  friend,  when 
a  gentleman — a  stranger  to  Egg  —  approached  the  man 
who  was  Egg's  temporary  support,  saying: 

"I  can't  agree  with  you  about  the  exhibition;  it  seems 
to  me  much  below  the  average.  And  as  to  your  friend 
Egg's  pictures,  I  think  they  are  beastly." 

"That  is  a  very  unfortunate  remark,  for  this  is  Mr. 

Egg-" 

"So  it  is — I  am  sorry.  Well,  I  will  go  and  look  again; 
I  may  have  been  hasty  in  my  judgment." 

Presently  the  gentleman  returned,  and  said  : 

"  Well,  Mr.  Egg,  I  need  scarcely  say  that  if  I  had  known 
who  you  were  I  should  have  been  reticent  in  my  remarks. 
I  apologize;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot  change  my 
opinion." 

I  confess  I  prefer  this,  finale  to  the  one  adopted  by  my 
lady  friend. 

The  attraction  of  the  "  Derby  Day"  continued  up  to  the 
closing  of  the  exhibition,  and  after  being  returned  to  me 
and  receiving  some  finishing-touches,  it  was  sent  to  Paris, 
where  it  was  admirably  engraved  by  Blanchard.  The 
picture  then  left  this  country  for  its  travels  abroad,  first 
to  the  antipodes,  then  to  America,  and  among  other  places 
to  Vienna,  where  it  procured  me  the  honor  of  election  to 
the  Austrian  Academy.  The  success  of  the  "  Derby  Day  " 
confirmed  me  in  my  determination  to  paint  the  life  about 
me ;  but  then  came  the  terrible  difficulty  of  finding  a  satis- 
factory subject.  As  a  stop-gap,  I  began  a  small  picture 


208  MY   AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

of  a  lady  waiting  to  cross  a  street,  with  a  little  boy  cross- 
ing-sweeper besieging  her  in  the  usual  fashion.  A  model 
for  the  lady  was  easily  found,  and  there  was  a  large  field 
of  selection  open  to  me  as  regarded  the  boy.  I  discovered 
a  young  gentleman  with  closely-cropped  hair,  naked  feet, 
and  a  wonderful  broom — in  all  respects  what  I  desired,  ex- 
cept in  regard  of  honesty;  and  for  a  further  description 
of  this  young  person  and  his  unsuccessful  attempt  to  rob 
me,  I  must  refer  my  reader  to  my  chapters  on  "  Models." 
I  may  note  here  the  impression  the  youth  made  upon  me 
at  his  first  sitting.  In  my  diary,  under  date  17th  July,  I 
find: 

"  A  low,  dull  Irish  boy  for  crossing-sweeper,  one  degree 
removed  from  a  pig.  Found  great  difficulty;  rubbed  in 
the  head  and  figure." 

From  long  study  of  "  the  human  face  divine,"  I  have 
acquired — or  think  I  have — a  knowledge  of  the  character 
and  disposition  that  certain  features  and  expressions  be- 
tray. First  of  all,  the  features  seem  to  lend  themselves 
to  particular  indulgences,  which,  being  cherished,  mark 
many  faces  indelibly.  To  illustrate  my  theory  I  relate 
the  following  facts : 

A  very  eminent  artist  friend  and  I  were  summoned  as 
witnesses  to  the  Old  Bailey.  It  was  the  first  day  of  ses- 
sion, and  the  prisoners  were  what  is  called  arraigned. 
That  proceeding  consists  in  placing  ten  or  a  dozen  of  them 
in  the  dock  together,  while  an  officer  of  the  court  reads 
over  the  different  charges — leaving  his  hearers  without 
any  clew  as  to  the  perpetrator  of  a  special  crime.  Among 
the  charges  was  one  of  a  peculiarly  dreadful  character; 
and  when  the  prisoners  had  all  left  the  dock,  I  said  to  my 
friend: 

"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  which  it  was  of  that 
set  who  committed  that  terrible  thing?" 

"Yes,"  said  he;  "the  parson,  I  think." 

"  That  is  the  man,"  said  I. 

The  parson  was  a  gentlemanly-looking  young  man, 
rather  handsome,  but  with  the  trail  of  the  serpent  palpable 
over  his  animal  face.  Curiously,  he  was  the  first  to  be 
placed  upon  trial;  he  was  defended  with  admirable  skill 


"THE  DERBY  DAY."  209 

by  one  of  the  most  eminent  barristers,  and  acquitted  ;  but 
our  conviction  of  his  guilt  remained  unshaken.  A  year 
or  two  after  the  trial  I  found  myself  in  the  company  of  a 
solicitor  whose  name,  if  I  were  to  mention  it,  would  be 
known  to  most  of  my  readers.  Our  conversation  turned 
on  my  favorite  theory.  "  Rubbish,"  said  the  solicitor; 
"  there's  nothing  in  it." 

Whereupon  I  proceeded  to  relate  my  Old  Bailey  ex- 
perience, carefully  avoiding  any  mention  of  the  name  of 
the  suspected  clergyman.  I  was  listened  to  attentively, 
and  when  I  had  finished  my  story,  the  solicitor  said  : 

"  Was  the  man's  name  So-and-so  ?" 

"  It  was,"  said  I,  greatly  surprised. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  lawyer,  "  the  fellow  was  guilty.  We 

instructed  P ,  and  he  knew  it.  The  clergyman  is  now 

undergoing  five  years'  penal  servitude  for  a  similar  of- 
fence." 

My  little  crossing-sweeper's  face  warned  me  not  to  leave 
him  alone  in  my  pain  ting- room  ;  I  neglected  the  warning, 
with  the  consequences  related  elsewhere. 

I  find  I  was  occupied  at  this  time  on  a  picture  intended 
for  an  artist  friend,  whose  career  was  somewhat  remark- 
able. I  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  friend — whom  I 
will  call  Macllray,  a  Scotchman  —  in  Paris,  when  I  was 
studying  in  the  Louvre,  in  1840.  I  was  attracted  by  his 
pleasant  manners,  and  by  some  excellent  copying  on  which 
.he  was  occupied.  Like  many  of  his  countrymen  he  was 
not  overburdened  with  riches,  but  he  seemed  to  have  a 
good  prospect  of  creating  some  by  the  exercise  of  his  pro- 
fession. On  my  return  to  London  I  introduced  Macllray 
to  the  set  of  young  men  with  whom  I  was  intimate,  and 
he  became  a  great  favorite  with  all  of  us.  He  had  scarce- 
ly had  time  to  make  a  mark  in  the  exhibition  when  a  sin- 
gular piece  of  good-fortune  befell  him.  He  had  painted 
several  portraits,  and  among  his  sitters  was  a  charming 
widow  who  possessed  in  her  own  right  six  thousand  a  year. 
They  bewitched  one  another,  and  immediate  marriage  was 
the  result.  There  is  no  blessing,  I  suppose,  that  is  quite 
unalloyed,  and  the  drawback  to  my  friend's  perfect  bliss 
was  the  impossibility  of  a  Scottish  laird — with  all  the 


210  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

duties  connected  with  the  position — being  able  to  devote 
himself  to  a.  profession  which  requires  all  a  man's  energies 
to  insure  success.  But  if  Macllray  could  no  longer  paint, 
he  could  be  the  cause  of  painting  in  others;  and  this  took 
the  kind  and  graceful  form  of  commissions  for  pictures  to 
all  his  friends.  The  price  to  be  paid  for  each  work  was 
a  hundred  guineas.  We  might  take  what  subject  we 
pleased,  but  each  picture  must  contain  a  portrait  of  the 
artist  painted  by  himself.  I  think  every  one,  in  course  of 
time,  executed  Macllray's  order ;  and  I  hear  that  the  pict- 
ures are  intended  eventually  to  become  the  nucleus  of  a 
national  collection  in  a  Scottish  town.  I  hear  also  that 
under  careful  management  the  six  thousand  a  year  has 
been  transformed  into  nearly  double  that  amount ;  and  if 
my  old  friend — who  will  easily  recognize  himself  under 
the  pseudonym  I  have  used — should  read  these  lines,  I 
hope  he  will  forgive  the  introduction  of  them  for  the  sake 
of  "  auld  lang  syne." 

So  convinced  was  I  that  I  should  henceforth  devote 
myself  entirely  to  modern-life  subjects  that  I  was  on  the 
point  of  getting  rid  of  a  rather  large  collection  of  cos- 
tumes of  all  ages.  It  was  well  I  did  not,  for  I  have  found 
great  use  for  them  in  these  latter  days. 

My  summer  holiday  of  1858  was  spent  at  Weymouth, 
where,  with  work  and  play,  I  had  what  the  Yankees  call 
"a  good  time."  I  was  very  fond  of  shooting  in  those 
days,  and  having  many  friends  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Weymouth  I  took  my  fill  of  sports  of  all  kinds,  including 
one  day's  hunting  which  I  shall  never  forget.  In  my 
youth  I  had  been  accustomed  to  riding,  and  by  the  advice 
of  my  doctor,  who  thought  horse-exercise  good  for  all 
who  could  get  it,  I  bought  a  horse  which,  if  not  thorough- 
bred, had  all  the  exuberance  of  spirit  with  which  that  class 
of  animal  is  credited.  If  my  work  had  occupied  me  till  it 
was  too  late  to  ride,  or  if  the  weather  made  that  exercise 
impossible,  my  horse — or,  to  speak  correctly,  my  marc — 
became  so  excited  by  the  prospect  of  a  canter,  as  to  make 
the  avoidance  of -the  vehicles  that  crowd  Westbourne 
Grove  a  matter  of  difficulty.  This  and  other  peculiarities 
caused  our  parting  eventually,  without  regret  on  my  side, 


"THE  DERBY  DAT.'*  211 

after  several  unsuccessful  attempts  on  the  part  of  the 
mare  to  break  my  neck.  She  accompanied  me  to  Wey- 
mouth,  and  she  took  me  out  hunting,  regardless  of  my  dis- 
inclination for  that  popular  sport,  as  I  shall  proceed  to 
show.  I  went  to  see  the  hounds  "  thrown  off,"  as  it  is 
called,  which,  interpreted,  signifies  the  discovery  and  im- 
mediate pursuit  of  a  fox — the  hounds  being  followed  by 
what  is  called  "the  field,"  meaning  just  as  many  of  the 
lookers-on  as  choose  to  follow  to  the  death.  I  had  no  in- 
tention whatever  of  joining  the  pursuers,  but  my  mare 
was  of  a  different  disposition.  I  was  in  the  saddle  quietly 
smoking  and  talking  to  a  friend,  when  a  terrific  noise 
burst  upon  us.  The  yelping  of  dogs,  holloaing  of  men, 
horn-blowing,  together  with  the  galloping  of  horses  in 
every  direction,  nearly  maddened  me,  and  quite  maddened 
my  mare.  Away  went  my  cigar,  she  reared,  she  plunged, 
she  flew  this  way  and  that,  as  if  doubtful  of  the  proper 
direction,  till,  seemingly  making  up  her  mind,  she  tore  at  a 
furious  pace  after  a  crowd  of  riders,  into  whose  midst  she 
carried  me  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  stop  her;  in  fact,  I 
lost  all  control  of  the  creature,  and  never  regained  it  until 
the  hunting  was  over,  late  in  the  afternoon.  Never  can  I 
forget  the  six  hours'  agony  I  spent  on  that  wretch's  back; 
and  then  the  advice  those  red-coated  villains  kept  giving 
me : 

"  Keep  her  head  straight,  sir  !  Don't  pull  her;  that  will 
never  do." 

"  Give  her  her  head  and  let  her  go;  take  that  fence  and 
ditch,  that  will  take  it  out  of  her." 

"  You  shouldn't  have  come  out  to  hounds  on  a  green 
horse." 

"  That  gent  on  the  chestnut  will  come  to  grief,  by !" 

"You  would  really  be  safer  inside,  sir." 

"  Get  off  and  lead*  her." 

"  Really,  sir,  you  must  get  out  of  the  way ;  back  her 
into  the  cover." 

"  If  that  gentleman  does  not  get  out  of  the  way  I  shall 
ride  over  him,  as  sure  as  the  devil's  in  London  !" 

These  remarks  and  compliments  were  made  to  me  by  a 
series  of  red  ruffians  when  I  was  in  a  condition  of  pallor 


212  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

and  perspiration,  striving,  with  every  nerve  that  remained 
to  me,  to  keep  my  seat  and  get  out  of  their  confounded 
way.  I  vowed  most  solemnly  that  if  I  were  permitted  to 
see  the  high-road  again  I  would  never  leave  it  for  furze- 
bushes  and  turnip-fields,  from  which  my  despairing  eyes 
could  see  no  exit  but  over  a  hedge;  hideous  swamps  full 
of  concealed  holes,  difficult  enough  to  ride  over  on  a  horse 
in  its  right  mind  by  a  dare-devil  with  no  family  ties — how 
perilous,  then,  for  a  timid  man  on  an  infuriated  beast,  with 
the  conviction  staring  him  in  the  face  that  any  moment 
might  see  his  wife  and  family  deprived  of  their  natural 
protector  ! 

To  this  hour  it  is  a  wonder  to  me  that  I  didn't  break 
my  neck.  Often  and  often  during  that  terrible  day  I  was 
more  off  the  mare  than  on  her — at  one  moment  thrown 
forward  on  to  her  neck,  at  another  nearly  slipping  off  her 
tail.  I  had  the  courage  of  despair,  for  I  knew  that  if  I 
were  thrown  the  hunters  would  ride  over  me  with  pleas- 
ure; and  if  that  casualty  had  befallen  me  in  one  of  those 
covers  they  must  have  done  so,  for  the  rides — as  they 
call  passages  about  as  wide  as  a  good  front-door — made  it 
almost  impossible  for  two  people  on  horseback  to  pass 
each  other,  and  those  fellows  rode  as  if  they  were  possessed. 
The  huntsman  galloped  past  me  and  actually  blew  his 
filthy  horn  into  my  horse's  ears.  She  tossed  up  her  head 
and  struck  me  a  violent  blow  on  the  nose,  and  so  confused 
me  that  I  thought  I  must  have  gone  then  ;  one  foot  was 
out  of  the  stirrup,  and  I  gave  myself  up  for  lost.  But 
the  good  little  cherub  that  sits  somewhere  or  other  had 
an  eye  upon  me,  and  I  live  to  tell  the  tale,  and  to  "  make 
a  vow  and  keep  it  strong,"  that  I  will  never  again  put 
myself  in  the  position  of  having  to  follow  the  hounds. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

PORTRAIT   OF   CHARLES   DICKENS. 

IN  the  fragment  of  English  history  left  to  us  by  Macau- 
lay,  an  account  may  be  found  of  a  celebrated  highwayman 
called  Claude  Duval — a  handsome  youth  who  managed 
to  disgrace  himself  and  a  good  family,  of  which  he  was 
the  offshoot,  by  ruinous  dissipation  of  every  kind,  ending 
by  "  taking  to  the  road  "  at  the  head  of  a  formidable 
gang.  The  young  fellow  had  been  page  to  the  Duke  of 
Richmond,  whose  fatherly  attempts  to  reclaim  him  were 
fruitless.  The  story  goes  that  on  a  wild  heath,  a  car- 
riage in  which  the  beautiful  Lady  Aurora  Sydney  was 
travelling  was  stopped  by  Duval's  gang,  the  trunks  were 
plundered,  and  a  booty  of  four  hundred  pounds  secured; 
but  a  portion  of  the  plunder  was  restored,  on  condition  of 
the  lady  dancing  a  coranto  on  the  heath  with  Captain  Du- 
val. The  dramatic  character  of  the  subject  attracted  me. 
I  thought  if  I  could  succeed  in  retaining  the  beauty  of  the 
lady,  combined  with  the  terror  that  she  would  feel,  I  should 
perform  a  feat  well  worthy  of  achievement.  The  dresses 
of  the  period  were  very  picturesque;  the  contrast  between 
the  robbers,  and  the  lady  and  her  companions,  would  be 
very  striking  ;  and  the  lumbering  carriage,  with  its  com- 
plement of  heavy  Flanders  horses,  might  combine  to  make 
a  satisfactory  picture.  In  the  absence  of  a  modern-life 
inspiration,  I  proceeded  with  the  preliminary  drawings  and 
the  oil-sketch  for  Claude  Duval.  The  time  unoccupied 
by  shooting  and  hunting  during  my  Weymouth  holiday 
was  devoted  to  a  careful  oil-study.  I  have  often  pondered 
over  the  varied  knowledge  that  an  artist  must  acquire  to 
enable  him  to  master  the  difficulties  that  each  fresh  sub- 
ject presents.  No  doubt  human  nature  is  always  the  same, 
but  manners  are  forever  changing;  those  of  two  hundred 


214  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

years  ago  arc  quite  unlike  those  of  to-day.  By  reading 
and  thinking  the  student  should  endeavor  to  identify  him- 
self with  a  bygone  time.  Customs  also  may  be  learned 
from  many  authorities  ;  so,  with  much  difficulty,  may  the 
dresses  be  studied  in  which  our  ancestors  lived  and  moved. 
To  enable  me  to  struggle  successfully  with  my  contem- 
plated subject,  this  variety  of  information  must  be  ac- 
quired. What  is  the  dance  called  the  "  Coranto  "?  For 
some  time  I  could  learn  nothing  about  it;  no  such  dance, 
or  anything  like  it,  exists  at  the  present  time.  In  my 
trouble  I  applied  to  an  authority  in  old-world  costumes — 
Mr.  Fairholt — who  most  kindly  supplied  me  with  the  de- 
scription of  the  dance,  accompanied  by  drawings  of  the 
performers;  and  though  engravings  of  the  carriages  used 
in  the  days  of  Charles  II.  were  plentiful,  it  was  desirable 
to  find  the  thing  itself,  if  such  a  discovery  were  possible. 
I  have  forgotten  who  it  was  that  told  me  I  might  find  a 
carriage  nearly,  if  not  quite,  as  old  as  the  days  of  the 
"  merry  monarch "  at  Cobham  Park,  the  seat  of  Lord 
Darnley,  to  whom  I  immediately  wrote  for  permission  to 
make  a  sketch  of  it,  if  the  news  of  his  being  possessed  of 
such  a  relic  were  true.  I  here  quote  from  a  letter  written 
to  my  sister  at  the  time: 

"Lord  Darnley  was  very  civil,  and  sent  me  permission.  I  went,  and 
found  the  quaintest  old  thing  you  can  conceive,  all  begilt  and  carved,  with 
such  great  leather  straps  and  buckles,  and  the  queerest  seat  for  the  driver 
and  for  the  footmen  behind.  To  think  of  the  old  carriage  outliving  its 
occupants  so  long !  How  they  must  have  gone  to  court  in  it,  in  their 
flounces,  swords,  and  ruffles.  There  it  is,  and  here  they  are  not.  Such  is 
life,  as  Mrs.  Gamp  hath  it." 

I  painted  the  "  blasted  heath "  from  a  study  made  in 
Dorsetshire,  where  I  also  found  the  withered  tree  which 
plays  a  prominent  part  in  the  composition  of  the  picture. 
I  have  elsewhere  told  the  student  to  go  to  nature  for  every 
detail  in  his  picture  ;  I  cannot  repeat  the  advice  too  often, 
that  no  dependence  should  be  placed  on  memory  while 
a  possibility  exists  of  referring  directly  to  nature.  The 
picture  proceeded -pretty  satisfactorily,  and  was  purchased 
during  its  progress  by  Mr.  Flatow,  the  picture-dealer,  at 
the  agreeable  price  of  seventeen  hundred  pounds — which 


PORTRAIT   OP   CIIA.RLK8   DICKENS.  215 

sum  also  included  the  sketch  and  copyright.  The  worthy 
dealer  is  described  elsewhere.  Of  this  picture  I  may  add 
that  it  was  very  soon  "  placed,"  to  use  the  common  phrase, 
with  a  Mr.  Grapel,  whose  passion  for  it  speedily  cooled  ; 
for  he  parted  from  it  with  advantage  to  his  pocket,  I  be- 
lieve— in  favor  of  I  know  not  whom — not  long  after  it 
became  his  property. 

The  year  1859  was  mainly  devoted  to  the  picture  of 
"Claude  Duval,"  but  there  were  many  interruptions  from 
the  necessity  of  my  keeping  promises  respecting  small 
pictures.  It  was  at  this  time  that  John  Forster  called 
upon  me  to  paint  a  portrait  of  his  friend  Dickens.  I  need 
scarcely  say  with  what  delight,  mixed  with  fear,  I  heard 
of  this  commission — delight  because  of  my  veneration  for 
the  author  and  my  love  for  the  man  ;  fear  that  I  might 
fail,  as  so  many  had  done  already.  Forster  had  hinted  his 
wish  to  me  a  year  or  two  before,  when  Dickens  had  adopt- 
ed the  mustache — a  hirsute  appendage  of  which  Forster 
had  a  great  horror ;  and  with  reason  as  regarded  Dickens, 
for  it  partly  covered,  and  certainly  injured,  a  very  hand- 
some and  characteristic  mouth.  "This  is  a  whim  —  the 
fancy  will  pass.  We  will  wait  till  the  hideous  disfigure- 
ment is  removed,"  said  Forster ;  but  we  waited  in  vain. 
Indeed,  we  waited  till  the  beard  was  allowed  to  grow  upon 
the  chin  as  well  as  upon  the  upper  lip;  so,  fearing  that  if 
we  waited  longer  there  would  be  little  of  the  face  to  be 
painted,  if  whiskers  were  to  be  added  to  the  rest,  the  or- 
der was  given  and  the  portrait  begun.  As  I  had  heard 
that  portrait-painters  had  often  derived  advantage  from 
photography,  I  asked  Dickens  to  give  me  a  meeting  at 
Mr.  Watkins',  who  was  thought  one  of  the  best  photog- 
raphers of  that  day.  Apropos  of  this  arrangement  came 
the  following  from  Dickens  : 

"GADS  II ILL,  Sunday,  January  4,  1859. 

"  MY  I'K.u;  FRITH, — I  want  to  stay  here  a  week  longer  than  I  proposed 
to  myself,  in  order  that  I  may  have  leisure  and  quiet  to  consider  some- 
thing 1  am  turning  in  my  mind.  I  hope,  therefore,  it  will  not  put  you  out 
if  I  suggest  that  it  would  be  a  great  convenience  to  me  to  have  our  ap- 
pointment with  Watkins  for  Monday  week  instead  of  Monday. 

"  Ever  very  faithfully  youre,  CHARLES  DICUNS." 


216  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Again,  on  the  12th,  he  writes  : 

"Mr  DEAR  FRITH, — At  eleven  on  Monday  morning  next  the  gifted  indi- 
vidual whom  you  will  transmit  to  posterity  will  be  at  Watkins'.  Table 
also  shall  be  there,  and  chair — velvet  coat  likewise,  if  the  tailor  should 
have  sent  it  home.  But  the  garment  is  more  to  be  doubted  than  the  man 
whose  signature  here  follows. 

"Faithfully  yours  always,  CHAULES  DICKENS." 

And  on  the  19th  he  says  : 

"MY  DEAR  FRITH, — The  'properties'  shall  be  ready,  and  nothing  shall 
scare  the  undersigned,  whose  faith  is  great. 

"Ever  faithfully,  C.  D." 

In  due  course  the  photograph  was  taken,  but  not  very 
successfully  ;  nor  did  I  derive  the  slightest  assistance  from 
it  in  the  prosecution  of  the  portrait.  The  change  in  Dick- 
ens' appearance  that  had  taken  place  during  the  twenty- 
five  years  that  had  elapsed  since  Maclise  had  painted  him 
so  admirably  was  very  striking.  The  sallow  skin  had  be- 
come florid,  the  long  hair  of  1835  had  become  shorter  and 
darker,  and  the  expression  settled  into  that  of  one  who 
had  reached  the  topmost  rung  of  a  very  high  ladder,  and 
was  perfectly  aware  of  his  position.  I  find  the  first  entry 
of  Dickens'  sittings  under  date 

"Jan.  21. — Arranged  Dickens'  portrait  till  he  came  at 
1.30.  He  sat  delightfully.  I  drew  his  head  in  outline,  he 
talking  all  the  while.  The  result  will  be  successful." 

Then,  next  day : 

"  Dickens  again.  Miss  Hogarth  and  his  daughter  came 
with  him,  and  remained  two  and  a  half  hours.  Got  in  the 
head  in  colors.  Dickens  most  pleasant.  No  wonder  peo- 
ple like  him." 

"Friday,  Jan.  28. — Dickens  came  at  12.  A  good  and 
long  sitting.  Feel  quite  assured  of  success." 

Between  Maclise's  picture  and  my  own,  many  portraits 
of  Dickens  had  been  taken,  most  of  them — indeed,  accord- 
ing to  the  sitter  himself,  all  of  them — absolute  failures.  I 
was  curious  with  regard  to  one  which  I  knew  had  been 
begun,  but  not  finished,  by  an  eminent  academician  ;  and 
during  one  of  the  sittings  to  me  I  inquired  the  reason  of 
the  delay. 

"  Well,  the  truth  is,"  said  Dickens,  "  I  sat  a  great  many 


PORTRAIT  OF  CHARLES   DICKENS.  217 

times.  At  first  the  picture  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to 
Ben  Cauut "  (a  prize  -  fighter  of  that  day) ;  "  then  it 
changed  into  somebody  else ;  and  at  last  I  thought  it  was 
time  to  give  it  up,  for  I  had  sat  there  and  looked  at  the 
thing  till  I  felt  I  was  growing  like  it." 

On  our  conversation  turning  on  the  preconceived  idea 
that  people  always  entertain  of  celebrities  in  literature  or 
art,  to  whose  personal  appearance  they  are  strangers,  he 
said  he  had  had  frequent  experience  of  the  dismay  which 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  persons  on  their  first  intro- 
duction to  him.  "  And  they  occasionally  allow  their  dis- 
appointment to  take  the  form  of  positive  objection.  For 
instance,"  said  he, "  Scheffer — who  is  a  big  man,  I  believe, 
in  your  line — said,  the  moment  he  saw  me,  '  You  are  not 
at  all  like  what  I  expected  to  see  you  ;  you  are  like  a 
Dutch  skipper.'  As  for  the  picture  he  did  of  me,  I  can 
only  say  that  it  is  neither  like  me  nor  a  Dutch  skipper." 

In  my  own  small  way  I  told  him  I  had  had  a  similar  ex- 
perience, for,  on  being  introduced  to  a  North-country  art 
patron,  he  said : 

"  You  don't  look  a  bit  like  an  artist.  I  should  have  put 
you  down  for  a  well-to-do  farmer." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Dickens,  "and  then  they  look  at  you 
as  if  it  was  your  fault — and  one  for  which  you  deserve  to 
be  kicked — because  you  fail  to  realize  their  ideal  of  what 
you  ought  to  be." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Dickens  commenced  the  public 
readings  of  his  works,  and  they  became  immediately  very 
popular  as  well  as  profitable.  I  availed  myself  of  his  of- 
fer of  tickets  of  admission  to  Hanover  Square  Rooms,  and 
heard  him  read  the  trial  from  "  Pickwick,"  and  from  some 
other  novel,  the  name  of  which  I  forget.  It  seems  a  bold 
thing  for  me  to  say,  but  I  felt  very  strongly  that  the  au- 
thor had  totally  misconceived  the  true  character  of  one  of 
his  own  creations.  In  reading  the  humorous  repartees  and 
quaint  sayings  of  Sam  Weller,  Dickens  lowered  his  voice 
to  the  tones  of  one  who  was  rather  ashamed  of  what 
he  was  saying,  and  afraid  of  being  reproved  for  the  free- 
dom of  his  utterances.  I  failed  in  being  able  to  rec- 
oncile myself  to  such  a  rendering  of  a  character  that,  of 
10 


218  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

all  others,  seemed  to  me  to  call  for  an  exactly  opposite 
treatment.  Sam  is  self-possessed,  quick,  and  never-failing 
in  his  illustrations  and  rejoinders,  even  to  the  point  of  im- 
pudence. 

When  I  determined  to  tell  the  great  author  that  he  had 
mistaken  his  own  work  I  knew  I  should  be  treading  on 
dangerous  ground.  But  on  the  occasion  of  a  sitting, 
when  my  victim  was  more  than  ever  good-tempered,  I 
unburdened  my  mind,  giving  reasons  for  my  objections. 
Dickens  listened,  smiled  faintly,  and  said  not  a  word.  A 
few  days  after  this  my  friend  Elmore  asked  my  opinion 
of  the  readings,  telling  me  he  was  going  to  hear  them, 
and  I  frankly  warned  him  that  he  would  be  disappointed 
with  the  character  of  Sam  Weller.  A  few  days  more 
brought  a  call  from  Elmore,  who  roundly  abused  me  for 
giving  him  an  utterly  false  account  of  the  Weller  episode. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  the  sayings  come  from  Dickens  like 
pistol-shots  ;  there  was  no  '  sneaking '  way  of  talking,  as 
you  described  it." 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  thought  I,  "  that  this  man,  who, 
as  it  is  told  of  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington,  never  took 
anybody's  opinion  but  his  own,  has  adopted  from  my  sug- 
gestion a  rendering  of  one  of  the  children  of  his  brain  di- 
ametrically opposed  to  his  own  conception  of  it  ?" 

At  the  next  sitting  all  was  explained,  for,  on  my  telling 
Dickens  what  Elmore  had  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye 
which  those  who  knew  him  must  so  well  remember,  he  re- 
plied :  * 

"  I  altered  it  a  little — made  it  smarter." 

"You  can't  think  how  proud  I  feel,"  said  I,  "and  sur- 
prised, too ;  for,  from  my  knowledge  of  you,  and  from 
what  I  have  heard  from  other  people,  you  are  about  the 
last  man  to  take  advice  about  anything,  least  of  all  about 
the  way  of  reading  your  own  books." 

"On  the  contrary,"  was  the  reply,  "whenever  I  am 
wrong  I  am  obliged  to  any  one  who  will  tell  me  of  it ;  but 
up  to  the  present  I  have  never  been  wrong." 

The  portrait  had  progressed  to  the  time  when  it  was 
necessary  to  consider  what  the  background  should  be,  and 
I  thought  it  best  to  discard  the  common  curtain  and  col- 


PORTRAIT    OF   CHARLES   DICKENS.  219 

umn  arrangement,  and  substitute  for  these  well-worn  prop- 
erties the  study  in  which  the  writer  worked,  with  what- 
ever accident  of  surrounding  that  might  present  itself. 
Accordingly  I  betook  myself  to  Tavistock  House,  and  was 
installed  in  a  corner  of  the  study  from  whence  I  had  a 
view  of  Dickens  as  he  sat  writing  under  the  window,  his 
desk  and  papers,  with  a  framed  address  to  him  —  from 
Birmingham,  I  think  —  together  with  a  book-case,  etc., 
making  both  back  and  fore  ground.  The  first  chapter  of 
the  "  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  or  rather  a  small  portion  of  it, 
lay  on  the  desk.  After  what  appeared  to  me  a  vast  deal 
of  trouble  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  muttering  to  himself, 
walking  about  the  room,  pulling  his  beard,  and  making 
dreadful  faces,  he  still  seemed  to  fail  to  satisfy  himself 
with  his  work.  I  think  he  seldom  if  ever  wrote  after  two 
o'clock;  never,  at  least,  when  I  was  at  Tavistock  House. 
With  Dickens'  permission  I  used  to  read  the  early  sheets 
of  the  new  novel  as  they  lay  upon  his  desk.  On  one  of 
the  few  occasions  on  which  I  got  to  work  before  him,  I 
saw  upon  the  table  a  paper  parcel  with  a  letter  on  the  top 
of  it.  From  the  shape  I  guessed  that  it  contained  books, 
as  the  event  proved.  Presently  Dickens  came  in,  read  the 
letter,  and  handed  it  to  me,  saying: 

"  Here  you  are  again  !  This  is  the  kind  of  thing  I  am 
subject  to;  people  send  me  their  books,  and,  what  is  more, 
they  require  me  to  read  them;  and,  what  is  almost  as  bad, 
demand  my  opinion  of  them.  Read  that." 

I  obeyed,  and  read  what  appeared  to  me  a  very  well- 
written  appeal  to  the  great  master  in  the  art,  of  which  the 
writer  was  a  very  humble  disciple,  etc.,  begging  for  his 
perusal  of  the  accompanying  work,  and  his  judgment 
upon  it,  and  so  on.  The  work  was  "Adam  Bede,"  and 
the  writer's  name  was  George  Eliot.  Dickens  took  up 
one  of  the  volumes,  looked  into  it,  and  said:  "  Seems  clever 
— a  good  style;  suppose  I  must  read  it." 

And  read  it  he  did  that  very  day,  for  the  next  morning 
he  said: 

"That's  a  very  good  book,  indeed,  by  George  Eliot. 
But  unless  I  am  mistaken,  G.  Eliot  is  a  woman." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Dickens  bought  the  prop- 


220  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

erty  at  Gads  Hill,  near  Rochester — the  reputed  locality 
of  the  famous  Falstaff  robbery — upon  which  his  longing 
youthful  eyes  had  been  cast  so  many  years  before.  My 
first  visit  to  the  new  house — where  Dickens  and  his  family 
had  gone  for  Christmas — was  paid  in  December,  1858. 
The  day  was  wet  and  dreary,  but  we  passed  it  agreeably 
in  talk  and  bagatelle;  the  players  being  Wilkie  Collins 
and  myself,  with  Dickens  and  Gordon — most  genial  of 
Scotchmen  and  Sheriff  of  Midlothian — for  opponents. 

When  the  portrait  was  finished  Gordon  came  to  see 
it.  He  walked  into  my  painting-room  with  his  arm  in  a 
sling.  Gordon  had  the  national  love  of  whiskey,  and  my 
first  thought  was  that  gout  had  supervened,  and  I  said  as 
much. 

"No,"  said  Gordon;  "a  bite." 

"  And  what  has  bitten  you  ?" 

"  A  lion,"  was  the  reply. 

It  appeared  that  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  of  Womb- 
well's  Menagerie  to  Edinburgh,  Gordon  had  chaperoned 
some  ladies,  and  while  talking  to  them  he  amused  him- 
self by  rubbing  the  nose  of  a  sleeping  lion.  The  animal 
opened  his  mouth,  to  yawn,  Gordon  thought;  and  in  shut- 
ting it,  somehow  or  other  Gordon's  hand  was  enclosed, 
and  the  lion's  teeth  passed  through  it.  The  position  was 
alarming  enough,  but  Gordon's  presence  of  mind  was  equal 
to  the  occasion.  With  his  left  hand  he  continued  gently 
rubbing  the  still  sleeping  brute's  nose.  The  lion  yawned 
again,  and  the  sheriff  withdrew  his  hand,  but  only  just  in 
time,  for,  to  use  Gordon's  own  words,  "  The  beast's  teeth 
had  passed  between  the  bones  of  the  hand,  completely 
through  it,  and  he  had  begun  in  a  sleepy  way  to  move  his 
jaws;  and  in  another  instant  I  should  have  been  too  late, 
for,  as  I  removed  my  hand,  he  opened  his  eyes." 

Dickens  capped  this  experience  with  another  instance  of 
extraordinary  stupidity.  Being  at  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
he  was  startled  by  cries  and  shouting  at  the  bears'  den. 
A  man  was  at  the  lower  door  of  the  den — now  covered  by 
a  strong  grating--— screaming  with  pain  and  terror;  he  had 
offered  one  of  the  bears  a  bun,  the  bun  was  accepted,  and 
the  man's  fingers  with  it.  As  Dickens  hurried  towards 


PORTRAIT   OF    CHARLKS    DICKENS.  221 

the  man,  two  keepers  arrived  at  the  same  moment  The 
bear  held  the  bun  and  fingers  with  an  obstinacy  quite  im- 
movable by  the  blows  showered  upon  his  nose.  No  time 
for  hot  irons,  so  after  a  very  brief  consultation  the  two 
strong  keepers  put  their  arms  round  the  unfortunate  man's 
waist  and  tore  him  away,  leaving  the  bun  and  the  first 
joints  of  his  fingers  in  the  possession  of  the  bear. 

When  Dickens  was  sitting  to  me,  he  mentioned  the  in- 
tention of  his  publishers  to  issue  a  library  edition  of  his 
works,  with  two  steel  illustrations  to  each  volume.  I 
begged  him  to  allow  me  to  be  one  of  the  illustrators;  and 
I  chose  "  Little  Dorrit,"  from  which  I  painted  two  small 
pictures,  afterwards  admirably  engraved  by  Stocks,  I  think. 
The  great  pleasure  that  I  felt  in  the  anticipation  of  once 
more  trying  my  hand  in  realizing  the  characters  of  the 
author  was  my  sole  motive  in  making  this  proposal.  The 
pictures  found  purchasers  immediately.  Great  was  my 
delight,  then,  when  I  received  the  whole  of  the  library 
edition  with  "  To  W.  P.  Frith,  with  the  regard  of  the  au- 
thor," pasted  into  the  first  volume.  Lovers  of  Dickens 
will  understand  with  what  care  these  books  are  treasured. 
I  can  only  remember  one  unfavorable  criticism  of  my  por- 
trait of  Dickens,  and  that  was  by  a  lady  who  knew  him 
well.  She  met  me  in  the  exhibition,  where  she  saw  the  like- 
ness for  the  first  time,  and  she  greeted  me  with, "  What  has 
Dickens  done  to  you  that  you  should  paint  him  like  that?" 

She  deigned  no  explanation,  and  to  this  moment  I  don't 
know  what  she  meant,  except  to  be  disagreeable,  and  in 
that  she  succeeded.  However,  I  was  amply  compensated 
by  the  universal  approval  of  all  Dickens'  family  and 
friends  —  Stone,  Egg,  Leech,  Mark  Lemon,  and  Shirley 
Brooks,  etc.,  etc. — who  said,  "At  last  we  have  the  real 
man;"  and  best  satisfied  of  all  was  John  Forster.  Forster 
was  a  gruff  man  with  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world,  as 
the  correspondence  printed  elsewhere  goes  far  to  prove; 
and  I  now  take  leave  of  him  with  heartfelt  recognition  of 
the  generous  praise  that  cheered  me  during  my  work,  and 
of  the  noble  liberality  with  which  it  was  rewarded. 

The  portrait  was  admirably  engraved  by  Mr.  Barlow, 
R.A..  and  is  now  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum. 


222  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

"  Claude  Duval "  made  slow  but  satisfactory  progress. 
My  diary  for  the  last  day  of  the  year  1859  tells  that  I 
painted  "Bit  of  distance  right  well.  Branch  of  tree. 
Painted  by  gaslight.  I  am  doing  the  most  successful 
picture  of  its  class  that  I  have  ever  done — better  in  art 
than  the  '  Derby  Day,'  but  it  will  not  be  so  popular  by  a 
long  way." 

The  prophecy  conveyed  in  the  above  proved  true.  So 
great  was  the  demand  for  modern  art  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury ago  that  copies  of  successful  pictures  —  and  some- 
times of  unsuccessful  ones  —  were  in  great  demand.  I 
found  myself  included  among  the  popular  men  to  such  a 
degree  that  scarcely  one  of  my  more  important  works 
escaped  what  Scheffer  called  being  "  bred  from."  Large 
and  small  replicas — to  give  them  a  fine  name — were  made; 
but  in  no  instance  without  the  consent  of  the  owners  of 
the  original  pictures.  Mr.  Price,  of  Queen  Anne  Street, 
possesses  an  important  copy  of  "Claude  Duval;"  the  orig- 
inal is  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Fielden,  at  Doburgh 
Castle,  Todmorden.  The  critics  were  severe  upon  poor 
"Claude."  I  forget  the  words  of  their  objurgations;  but 
I  remember  the  advice  of  one  of  them,  which  was  that  I 
should  devote  myself  to  the  illustration  of  the  "  Newgate 
Calendar,"  with  some  compliments  as  to  the  fitness  of  my 
art  and  me  for  the  office. 

.  I  think  the  only  popular  painter  who  kept  himself  free 
from  tha  vice  of  copying  was  Edwin  Landseer,  with  whom 
I  had  become  intimate  at  this  time.  He  was  the  greatest 
animal  painter  that  ever  lived ;  and  his  figures  occasionally 
were  scarcely  inferior  to  his  brutes.  From  his  early  youth 
he  had  been  admitted  to  the  highest  society,  and  no  won- 
der, for  in  addition  to  his  genius,  which  was  exercised 
again  and  again  for  the  "great,"  either  in  ornamenting 
their  scrap-books  or  in  the  more  important  form  of  pict- 
ures— for  which  he  was  very  inadequately  paid — he  was 
the  most  delightful  story-teller,  and  the  most  charming 
companion  in  the  world.  He  also  sang  delightfully.  In 
speaking,  he  had  .caught  a  little  of  the  drawl  affected  in 
high  life,  and  he  practised  it  till  it  became  a  second  nature. 
He  was,  of  course,  entirely  free  from  envy  of  others;  and 


PORTRAIT   OF   CHARLES   DICKENS.  223 

conscious  of  his  own  shortcomings  in  his  art,  as  a  remark 
I  once  heard  him  make  will  prove.  "  If  people  only  knew 
as  much  about  painting  as  I  do,"  he  said,  "  they  would 
never  buy  my  pictures." 

His  rapidity  of  execution  was  extraordinary.  In  the 
National  Gallery  there  is  a  picture  of  two  spaniels  of  what 
is  erroneously  called  the  Charles  II.  breed  (the  real  dog 
of  that  time  is  of  a  different  form  and  breed  altogether, 
as  may  be  seen  in  pictures  of  the  period),  the  size  of  life, 
with  appropriate  accompaniments,  in  two  days.  An  empty 
frame  had  been  sent  to  the  British  Institution,  where  it 
was  hung  on  the  wall,  waiting  for  its  tenant — a  picture  of 
a  lady  with  dogs — till  Landseer  felt  the  impossibility  of 
finishing  the  picture  satisfactorily.  Time  had  passed,  till 
two  days  only  remained  before  the  opening  of  the  exhibi- 
tion. Something  must  be  done;  and  in  the  time  named 
those  wonderfully  lifelike  little  dogs  were  produced. 

A  still  more  extraordinary  instance  may  be  mentioned. 
Landseer  was  staying  at  Redleaf,  the  delightful  seat  of 
Mr.  Wells,  who,  with  all  his  love  for  artists,  objected  to 
their  painting  on  Sunday.  Landseer  may  have  had  an 
equal  objection  to  going  to  church;  anyway,  he  took  ad- 
vantage of  Mr.  Wells's  absence  on  that  laudable  errand  to 
paint  a  picture  of  a  dog — the  size  of  life — with  a  rabbit  in 
its  mouth.  This  picture  was  begun  as  Mr.  Wells  started 
for  his  mile-and-a-quarter  walk  to  church,  and  finished  just 
as  he  returned,  the  whole  time  occupied  being  a  little  over 
two  hours.  On  the  trunk  of  a  tree  in  the  background  is 
an  inscription  recording  the  feat. 

The  British  Gallery  was  a  favorite  place  of  exhibition 
with  Landseer,  many  of  whose  less  important  works  were 
shown  there.  Among  the  rest  I  remember  one  of  a  hare 
attacked  by  a  stoat;  the  stoat  had  caught  the  hare  by  the 
throat,  and  one  could  almost  hear  the  screams  of  the  poor 
creature  in  its  hopeless  resignation  to  its  fate.  I  do  not 
know  who  may  be  the  happy  owner  of  that  splendid  work, 
but  if  he  should  happen  to  read  these  lines  and  will  then 
look  at  the  back  of  his  picture,  he  will  find  a  criticism  of 
the  picture,  which  is  unique,  or  nearly  so,  in  the  annals  of 
that  science.  It  is  to  the  following  effect: 


224  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"In  Mr.  Landseer's  picture  of  a  rabbit  attacked  by  a 
weasel,  it  appears  to  us  that  the  rabbit  is  more  like  a  hare, 
and  the  weasel  has  none  of  the  characteristics  of  that  spe- 
cies of  vermin,  for  it  is  more  like  a  stoat." 

The  whole  of  the  hall  of  Mr.  Wells's  residence  was 
filled  by  the  hand  of  Landseer;  every  variety  of  game, 
from  the  red-deer  to  the  snipe,  found  its  exponent  in  the 
great  painter.  When  a  pheasant  was  shot,  its  attitude 
was  carefully  preserved  by  bits  of  moss  or  pebbles,  so  that 
it  might  stiffen  in  death,  and  thus  become  a  true  model  for 
the  painter.  When  a  partridge  or  a  wild-duck  fell,  similar 
means  were  taken  to  secure  results,  of  which  most  faithful 
transcripts  filled  the  hall.  Besides  possessing  pictures  by 
nearly  all  the  best  modern  painters,  Mr.  Wells  had  a  very 
fine  collection  of  old  masters;  and  the  gardens  attached  to 
the  house  were  as  remarkable  as  the  contents  of  it.  As 
the  custodian  of  both,  Mr.  Wells  was  even  more  difficult 
of  approach  by  strangers  than  Mr.  Sheepshanks.  Living 
within  easy  distance  of  Tunbridge  Wells,  he  found  it 
necessary  to  arm  himself  against  intruding  excursionists, 
more  especially  after  the  railway  was  made.  He  told  me 
he  was  called  "  Tiger  Wells,"  he  was  thankful  to  say,  and 
he  should  always  show  his  claws  to  anybody  who  ventured 
too  near  his  den.  I  was  witness  to  one  example  of  the 
tiger-nature  which  amused  me,  and  may  amuse  my  readers. 
A  carriage  filled  with  ladies,  and  attended  by  some  gentle- 
men on  horseback,  was  driven  up  to  the  Redleaf  front- 
door. The  chief  occupant  of  the  carriage  was  Lady , 

well  known  in  London  society.  The  gentlemen  were  all 
of  the  upper  ten,  most  of  them  known  only  by  sight  to 
Mr.  Wells.  The  door  was  opened  by  David,  Mr.  Wells's 
old  servant;  lie  was  instructed  to  utter  the  usual  formula, 
"  Not  at  home,"  by  Mr.  Wells  himself,  who  waited  in  the 
hall  to  see  the  result. 

"  Not  at  home,"  was  announced  to  Lady by  an 

aristocratic  horseman. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  lady.  "  Shall  we  see  the  gar- 
dens first,  or  would  you  like  to  take  the  pictures,  and  then 
the  flowers?" 

Before  Lady could  quite  finish  her  directions  Mr. 


PORTRAIT    OP    CHARLES    DICKENS.  225 

Wells  approached  the  carriage  and  said,  in  a  peremptory 
voice, 

"  Mr.  Wells  is  not  at  home,  madam  !" 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  lady;  "  dear  me  !  Then  I  suppose  we 
must  go  back !" 

Mr.  Wells  made  his  best  bow,  and  the  party  departed. 

To  return  to  Landseer.  Our  intimacy  had  extended  to 
the  point  of  frequent  dinner-meetings  here  and  elsewhere. 
At  this  house  he  was  always  a  welcome  and  honored  guest; 
but  he  had  adopted  a  habit  of  keeping  other  guests  wait- 
ing. It  was  usually  at  least  half  an  hour  after  everybody 
else  had  arrived  before  he  made  his  appearance.  For  any 
man  to  keep  ladies  waiting  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  de- 
testable practice,  and  though  I  had  the  greatest  respect 
and  love  for  Landseer,  I  determined  to  read  him  a  lesson; 
so  after  suffering  from  these  practices  several  times,  I  re- 
solved never  to  wait  a  moment  for  him  again.  The  con- 
sequence of  this  resolution  was,  that  the  next  dinner  to 
which  he  had  engaged  himself  to  us  was  nearly  half  over 
when  he  walked  into  the  dining-room,  making  profuse 
apologies  for  his  "  unavoidable "  want  of  punctuality. 
Many  and  many  a  time  did  the  delightful  raconteur  dine 
with  us  afterwards;  he  was  always  the  first  to  arrive,  and, 
with  watch  in  hand,  he  would  attack  some  tardy  visitor — 
if  he  knew  him  well  enough — and  would  say:  "  Look  here, 
there  is  no  rudeness  equal  to  that  of  keeping  ladies  wait- 
ing for  their  dinners." 

On  one  occasion  our  after-dinner  talk  turned  upon  the 
love  of  money,  and  as  there  were  no  very  elderly  people 
present,  we  all  agreed  that  avarice  was  the  vice  of  age ; 
and  some  one  spoke  of  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington, 
then  living,  as  an  example. 

"  No,"  said  Landseer;  "whoever  says  that  knows  noth- 
ing of  the  duke.  I  know  him  well,  and  I  say  he  is  the 
very  reverse  of  avaricious." 

He  then  proceeded  to  give  us  an  instance  of  his  liberal- 
ity. Landseer  painted  a  picture  of  the  lion-tamer,  Van 
Amburgh;  a  large  work  representing  the  interior  of  a  den 
of  lions  and  tigers,  among  whom  the  man  lay  in  apparent 
security.  The  artist  was  left  with  a  free  hand  as  to  price; 
10* 


226  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

and  when  on  the  completion  of  the  picture,  in  reply  to 
the  duke's  inquiry,  Landseer  told  him  the  price  would  be 
six  hundred  guineas,  the  duke  wrote  out  a  check  for 
twelve.  "  I  could  tell  you  many  more  instances  of  his 
liberality,"  said  the  painter. 

The  great  duke,  being  human,  was  no  doubt  the  victim 
of  weaknesses,  one  of  which — a  very  small  one — consisted 
in  the  conviction  that  he  could  name  every  picture  in  the 
Apsley  House  collection  without  reference  to  the  cata- 
logue. So  long  as  the  pictures  followed  in  regular  se- 
quence, and  were  named  one  after  another  in  order,  the 
effort  of  memory  was  successful ;  but  if  the  narrator  were 
called  back  by  the  forgetfulness  of  the  visitor  to  any  spe- 
cial picture,  he  was  at  fault ;  and  without  beginning  again 
with  the  first  picture  in  the  room,  he  could  not  give  the 
information  asked  for. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  who  did  you  say  that  was?" 
said  Landseer  to  the  duke,  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to 
Apsley  House,  at  the  same  time  pointing  to  a  half-length 
portrait  of  a  sour-looking  woman  in  the  costume  of  the 
time  of  Elizabeth. 

The  duke  looked  up  at  the  picture,  muttered  something, 
and  left  the  room. 

While  the  duke  was  absent,  Landseer  studied  other 
pictures,  and  had  pretty  well  forgotten  all  about  the  sour- 
looking  lady,  wrhen  a  voice  close  to  his  ear  exclaimed, 
"  Bloody  Mary  !" 

The  only  true  resemblance  of  the  great  duke,  in  his 
later  years,  is  in  Landseer's  picture  of  the  "  Visit  to  Wa- 
terloo," where  the  duke  is  supposed  to  be  describing  to 
Lady  Douro,  his  son's  wife,  an  incident  of  the  battle.  It 
is  the  vera  effigies  of  the  man.  I  happened  to  be  by  when 
the  duke  and  Miss  Burdett  Coutts  were  looking  at  the 
picture  in  Trafalgar  Square,  and  heard  the  great  captain 
say,  looking  at  the  portrait  of  Lady  Douro:  "  That's  quite 
shocking!"  which  it  was,  indeed,  as  Landseer  acknowl- 
edged ;  and,  said  he,  "  I  wonder  the  duke  is  any  better, 
for  he  only  sat  half  an  hour." 

It  was  interesting  to  see  the  great  man  looking  at  pic- 
torial renderings  of  his  exploits  ;  they  frequently  figured 


PORTRAIT    OF    CHARLES    DICKENS.  227 

on  the  Academy  walls.  Sir  William  Allan  painted  two, 
which  appeared  in  the  same  exhibition  :  one  represented 
the  duke  riding  over  the  field  of  Waterloo  by  moonlight, 
when  he  is  said  to  have  "  shed  iron  tears;"  the  other  a 
frustrated  attempt  of  some  British  sailors  to  escape  from 
Boulogne.  The  duke's  habit  was  to  examine  every  pict- 
ure in  the  exhibition  that  was  visible  to  him ;  and  I  have 
seen  him  spend  precisely  the  same  time,  and  show  the 
same  interest — and  no  more — over  pictures  in  which  he 
figured  gloriously,  as  he  did  in  all  others.  If  a  friend 
were  with  him,  he  would  make  a  remark,  as  I  heard  him 
on  Allan's  picture  of  the  "  Waterloo  Fight."  "  Too  much 
smoke  !"  said  the  duke. 

Another  celebrity  whose  remarks  were  striking  enough 
was  Rogers  the  poet,  who,  on  seeing  a  rather  poor,  ill- 
drawn  picture  of  Adam  and  Eve,  exclaimed,  "I  deny  that 
I  am  descended  from  that  couple  !" 

It  would  be  difficult  to  convey  to  the  present  generation 
any  idea  of  the  veneration  that  was  felt  for  the  great 
duke.  Everybody,  down  to  the  street  boys,  knew  him, 
and  vied  with  each  other  in  offering  marks  of  respect.  I 
cannot  refrain  from  describing  an  incident  that  came  un- 
der my  own  observation.  I  was  descending  the  steps  that 
lead  from  the  Duke  of  York's  column  into  St.  James's 
Park,  when  I  saw  the  duke  on  horseback,  trotting  slowly 
along,  followed  by  his  chocolate-coated  groom,  and  at- 
tended by  a  dirty  little  boy  who  managed  to  keep  pace 
with  the  duke's  horse,  now  and  again  looking  up  at  the 
rider.  The  duke's  patience  with  his  inquisitive  follower 
failed  as  I  descended  the  last  step  into  the  Park,  for  ho 
stopped  his  horse  and  addressed  the  boy  : 

"What  do  you  want?" 

The  boy  put  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  was  confused 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  looking  up  at  the  duke,  said, 

"  I  want  to  see  where  you  are  £oing." 

"  I  am  going  there,"  said  the  duke,  pointing  to  the 
Horse  Guards.  "  Now  go  about  your  business !" 

The  story  told  of  Sydney  Smith,  who,  on  being  asked 
by  Landseer  to  sit  to  him,  replied,  "  Is  thy  servant  a  dog 
that  he  should  do  this  thing?"  is  not  true;  but  another 


228  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

and  a  better  one,  in  which  the  young  King  of  Portugal 
figured,  may  be  relied  upon,  as  I  have  Landseer's  author- 
ity for  its  truthfulness.  At  one  of  the  court  balls  Land- 
seer  attended,  and  when  the  King  of  Portugal,  who  was 
also  a  guest,  was  made  aware  of  the  presence  of  the  great 
animal  painter,  he  expressed  his  desire  for  an  introduc- 
tion. Landseer  was  presented  accordingly,  when  the  king, 
in  his  imperfect  English,  said,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Landseer,  I  am 
delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance — I  am  so  fond  of 
beasts  /" 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
SUCCESS  OF  "TUB  RAILWAY  STATION." 

THE  autumn  of  1860  was  taken  up  by  studies  for  the 
picture  of  "  The  Railway  Station."  The  preparations 
were  on  much  the  same  lines  as  those  for  the  "  Derby 
Day."  Many  chalk  drawings  of  separate  figures  and 
groups,  many  changes  of  composition  and  incident,  be- 
fore I  could  satisfy  myself  that  I  might  commence  the 
inevitable  oil-sketch.  I  don't  think  the  station  at  Pad- 
dington  can  be  called  picturesque,  nor  can  the  clothes  of 
the  ordinary  traveller  be  said  to  offer  much  attraction  to 
the  painter — in  short,  the  difficulties  of  the  subject  were 
very  great;  and  many  were  the  warnings  of  my  friends 
that  I  should  only  be  courting  failure  if  I  persevered  in 
trying  to  paint  that  which  was  in  no  sense  pictorial.  My 
own  doubts  were  great,  I  confess,  and  I  well  remember 
my  surprise — on  showing  the  sketch  to  the  great  Flatow — 
at  the  eagerness  with  which  he  engaged  himself  to  take 
the  picture,  sketch,  and  copyright  at  a  price  that  appeared 
to  me  then  as  one  of  the  most  exorbitant  on  record.  As 
a  matter  of  curiosity  I  append  a  copy  of  the  agreement; 
by  which  it  will  be  seen  that  I  had  reserved  the  right  to 
exhibit  the  picture  at  the  Royal  Academy — a  right  after- 
wards resigned  for  a  consideration  in  the  shape  of  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  : 

"  Memorandum  of  agreement  made  this  tenth  day  of  September,  one 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty,  between  William  Powell  Frith,  R.A., 
of  10,  Pembridge  Villas,  Bayswater,  in  the  County  of  Middlesex,  of 
the  one  part,  and  Louis  Victor  Flatow,  of  23,  Albany  Street,  Regent's 
Park,  in  the  said  County,  picture-dealer,  of  the  other  part. 
"  The  said  William  Powell  Frith  agrees  to  sell  to  the  said  Louis  Victor 
Flatow,  and  said  Louis  Victor  Flatow  agrees  to  buy,  the  large  picture  now 
being  painted  by  the  said  William  Powell  Frith,  called  '  A  Railway  Sta- 
tion,' together  with  the  original  sketch  and  the  copyright  thereof,  for  the 


230  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   BEMINISCENCES. 

sum  of  four  thousand  five  hundred  pounds,  to  be  paid  by  instalments  as 
follows :  Five  hundred  pounds  on  the  first  day  of  December  next  ensuing ; 
five  hundred  pounds  on  the  first  of  March,  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  sixty-one,  and  a  like  sum  at  the  expiration  of  every  succeeding  three 
months,  till  the  picture  is  completed,  when  the  balance,  if  any,  shall  in 
any  case  be  paid  .... 

"  The  said  Louis  Victor  Flatow  shall  allow  the  picture  to  be  exhibited 
at  the  Royal  Academy  in  the  Exhibition  of  the  year  one  thousand  eight 
hundred  and  sixty-two,  or  in  the  following  Exhibition. 

"W.  P.  FRITH, 
"  L.  V.  FLATOW." 

The  above  is  all  that  is  of  interest  in  a  somewhat  lengthy 
document. 

On  August  28  I  find  the  first  entry  of  the  commence- 
ment of  the  large  picture  of  "The  Railway  Station:" 

"  Commenced  picture  of  railway  platform ;  another  long 
journey,  to  which  I  go  with  almost  as  good  a  heart  as  I  did 
to  the  'Derby  Day.'  May  it  be  as  successful!" 

I  worked  steadily  on  to  the  end  of  the  year,  and  I  closed 
my  diary  with: 

"  Once  more  in  full  swing  at  an  important  work,  next  in 
importance  to  the  'Derby  Day,'  which  some  say  it  will 
excel  in  merit  and  attractiveness.  I  am  doubtful.  The 
subject  is  good,  but  I  don't  feel  so  warm  upon  it  as  I  did 
upon  the  other.  Doubtful  of  myself.  Damped  by  the  in- 
difference of  my  artist-friends.  Let  me  remember  that 

and  treat  what  I  have  done  so  far  with  the 

greatest  indifference,  and  see  if  the  result  justifies  their 
opinion.  If  so,  I  am  utterly  deceived  and  conceited,  and 
the  blow  that  my  confidence  receives  will  be  deserved. 
In  the  meantime  let  me  do  all  I  can  to  insure  success — 
work  and  wait." 

The  whole  of  the  year  1861,  with  fewer  interruptions 
than  usual,  was  spent  on  "The  Railway  Station."  My 
diary  records  incessant  work,  and  the  employment  of  a 
multitude  of  models.  I  fear  there  is  little  to  tell  that 
would  interest  my  readers,  but  I  desire  to  reiterate,  for 
the  information  of  young  painters,  that  every  object,  liv- 
ing or  dead,  was  painted  from  nature — often  imperfectly 
enough,  as  the  picture  proves.  The  police  officers  repre- 
sented as  arresting  a  criminal  on  the  eve  of  escape  were 


SUCCESS  OF  "THE  RAILWAY  STATION."          231 

painted  from  two  detectives  well  known  at  that  time, 
Messrs.  Hay  dun  and  Brett,  the  latter  of  whom  I  believe  still 
survives.  They  were  admirable  sitters,  and  when  I  com- 
plimented them  on  their  patience  they  took  small  credit 
for  doing  for  me  what  they  had  often  done  for  criminals 
of  a  deeper  dye,  namely,  standing  on  the  watch,  hour  after 
hour,  in  the  practice  of  their  profession,  waiting  for  a  thief 
or  a  murderer. 

One  of  the  incidents  in  the  picture  represents  a  foreign- 
er whose  idea  of  a  cab-fare  differs  considerably  from  that 
of  the  driver  of  the  vehicle,  and  he  is  consequently  sub- 
jected to  a  bullying  not  uncommon  under  similar  circum- 
stances. The  original  of  the  foreigner  was  a  mysterious 
individual  who  taught  my  daughters  Italian  ;  he  hailed 
from  Venice,  at  that  time  groaning  under  Austrian  rule. 
He  was  a  man  of  distinguished  manners ;  and  we  were 
given  to  understand  that  he  was  a  nobleman  whose  head 
was  wanted  in  Venice  to  serve  a  very  different  purpose 
from  that  to  which  I  put  it  in  this  country.  At  first  he 
refused  to  sit,  as  he  dreaded  recognition  by  some  aristo- 
cratic friends  who  might  come  to  England ;  and  it  was 
only  on  my  promising  that  I  would  avoid  making  a  like- 
ness of  him  that  I  succeeded  in  overcoming  his  reluctance. 
If  I  am  to  keep  to  my  determination  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth  in  these  reminis- 
cences, I  must  here  confess  that  I  deceived  the  Italian 
count  from  the  first;  for,  unless  I  caught  the  character  of 
the  face,  I  knew  my  model  would  be  useless  to  me.  The 
difficulty  then  was  to  prevent  the  portrait  being  seen  till 
it  was  finished:  this  was  accomplished  on  one  pretence  or 
other;  but  the  inevitable  moment  came  at  last,  and  never 
can  I  forget  the  torrent  of  broken  English  that  was  poured 
upon  me  when  my  sitter  first  saw  his  face  in  the  picture. 
"  You  say  it  shall  not  be  like  me,  and  it  is  as  if  I  see  me 
in  a  look-glass.  You  have  betray  me — it  is  perfide — my 
friends  will  recognize  me.  If  I  thought  it  was  to  be  so  I 
would  not  have  do  it." 

I  fear  my  conduct  was  as  indefensible  as  that  of  poor 
Haydon  under  somewhat  similar  circumstances;  or  only 
to  be  excused  on  the  ground  that  in  the  cause  of  art  the 


232  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

end  justifies  the  means.  As  one  of  the  principal  actors  in 
the  Haydon  case  told  me  all  the  circumstances,  I  can  vouch 
for  their  truth.  The  readers  of  Haydon's  life  are  aware 
of  his  many  arrests  for  debt  and  his  consequent  imprison- 
ment in  the  King's  Bench,  where  he  was  attracted  by  a 
boisterous  travesty  of  an  election  performed  by  the  pris- 
oners, from  whom  he  painted  a  picture  called  "  The  Mock 
Election,"  which  was  bought  by  George  IV.,  and  is  now 
at  Windsor  Castle.  Nearly  all  the  models  for  the  work 
were  the  actors  in  the  burlesque,  and  ready  to  hand;  he 
was  at  a  loss,  however,  for  one,  the  official  who  swears  in 
the  members;  and  reflection  seems  to  have  brought  to  his 
mind  the  father  of  his  old  friend  and  fellow -townsman 
Hart,  R.A.  (who  told  me  the  story),  as  being  exactly 
suited  to  his  purpose.  Haydon  wrote  to  Hart,  and,  tell- 
ing him  what  he  wanted,  begged  him  to  allow  his  father 
to  sit.  Those  who  knew  Mr.  Hart  will  remember  that  he 
was  not  distinguished  for  personal  beauty;  but  he  was  an 
Adonis  in  comparison  with  his  father,  whose  physiognomy 
displayed  the  most  unfavorable  characteristics  of  the  Jew- 
ish race.  Mi*.  Hart,  senior,  lived  with  his  son;  who  was 
an  estimable  person  in  all  respects,  and  remarkable  for  his 
devotion  to  his  father  and  his  extreme  sensitiveness  in  all 
that  concerned  him.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  then 
that  a  very  indignant  refusal  was  sent  in  reply  to  Haydon's 
letter,  together  with  vehement  reproaches  for  his  attempt 
to  place  the  father  of  an  old  friend  in  so  ridiculous  and 
humiliating  a  position. 

This  brought  a  long  and  repentant  letter  from  Haydon, 
which  closed  with  a  prayer  for  forgiveness;  and  the  hope 
that  a  proof  that  animosity  had  ceased  should  be  shown 
by  the  elder  Hart  being  allowed  to  breakfast  with  the 
artist  in  prison,  on  the  following  Sunday  morning. 

With  a  heart  overflowing  with  forgiveness  on  the  part 
of  both  father  and  son,  the  former  wended  his  way  to 
breakfast  in  the  King's  Bench.  Hart  told  me  that  his 
father  had  not  been  long  gone  before  it  occurred  to  him, 
knowing  the  old  gentleman's  kindly  and  somewhat  weak 
character — and  knowing,  also,  the  character  of  Haydon — 
it  would,  perhaps,  be  as  well  if  he  were  to  go  himself  and 


SUCCESS  OF  "THE  RAILWAY  STATION."  233 

see  that  the  artist's  well-known  devotion  to  his  art  had 
not  made  him  forgetful  of  truth  and  honor.  He  argued 
with  himself  that  such  a  betrayal  was  impossible,  but  in 
vain ;  and  at  last  started  for  the  prison,  where  he  found 
Haydon  at  work,  just  finishing  a  wonderful  likeness  of  the 
old  man  swearing  in  a  dandy  on  a  piece  of  burned  stick. 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  recommending  a  study  of  the 
life  and  death  of  poor  Haydon  —  than  whom  a  more  en- 
thusiastic, well-intending,  and  mistaken  being  never  ex- 
isted—  to  the  attention  and  study  of  students.  I  well 
remember  the  shock  of  his  sad  death,  which  distressed, 
if  it  scarcely  surprised,  all  who  knew  him.  Maclise  first 
heard  of  it  at  the  Athenaeum  Club,  and  seeing  Turner 
reading  a  newspaper  he  went  to  him  and  said, 

"I  have  just  heard  of  Haydon's  suicide.  Is  it  not 
awful  ?" 

Turner,  without  looking  up  from  his  paper,  said: 

"  Why  did  he  stab  his  '  mother'  ?" 

"  Great  Heaven  !"  said  Maclise,  "you  don't  mean — " 

"Yes.     He  stabbed  his  mother." 

No  explanation  could  be  obtained  from  Turner,  but  he 
alluded,  no  doubt,  to  Haydon's  attacks  upon  the  Academy, 
to  which  he  owed  his  education,  and  which  were,  indeed, 
the  cause  of  his  ruin. 

The  opportunity  for  a  display  of  what  Haydon  called 
"high  art"  arrived  at  last  by  the  proposed  decoration 
of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  with  historical  pictures — a 
consummation  that  he  had  been  agitating,  in  season  and 
out  of  season,  all  his  life — and  then  to  see  himself  passed 
over,  left  out  in  the  cold,  while  younger  men  took  the 
prizes  and  gained  all  the  employment,  was  a  most  cruel 
blow;  and  one  cannot  read  of  it  in  Tom  Taylor's  admira- 
ble life  of  the  artist  without  almost  tearful  sympathy.  My 
friend  the  late  John  Thomas,  the  author  of  all  the  sculpt- 
ure that  decorates  the  exterior  of  the  Houses,  told  me  that 
on  the  day  of  the  decision  —  so  fat.il  to  Haydon  —  he  was 
lunching  at  a  restaurant  near  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
when  his  attention  was  attracted  to  a  man  who,  with  a 
bottle  of  wine  before  him,  was  leaning  on  the  table,  the 
upper  part  of  his  face  covered  by  his  hand.  As  Thomas 


234  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

looked,  thinking  he  knew  the  man,  the  tears  fell  slowly 
down  the  stranger's  face.  In  a  few  minutes  the  hand  was 
removed,  and  poor  Haydon  was  revealed. 

I  must  return  to  "  The  Railway  Station,"  which  was 
completed  in  March,  1862,  after  rather  more  than  a  year 
of  incessant  work.  As  I  have  said  elsewhere,  there  were 
no  exhibitions  in  those  days  except  the  annual  ones,  and 
no  single-picture  exhibitions  at  all.  The  "  Railway  "  was  a 
great  success.  I  find  that  twenty -one  thousand  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  people  paid  for  admission  in  seven  weeks,  and 
the  subscription  for  the  engraving  was  equally  surprising 
and  satisfactory.  The  critics  contradicted  one  another,  as 
usual,  without  doing  good  or  harm  to  me  or  the  picture. 
Flatow  was  triumphant;  coaxing,  wheedling,  and  almost 
bullying,  his  unhappy  visitors.  Many  of  them,  I  verily 
believe,  subscribed  for  the  engraving  to  get  rid  of  his  im- 
portunity, lie  used  to  boast  that  he  could  induce  the 
most  unpromising  visitor  to  subscribe;  and  on  one  occa- 
sion, as  I  was  talking  to  him  in  the  outer  room,  a  fashion- 
able, languid-looking  young  gentleman,  having  seen  the 
picture,  was  on  the  point  of  taking  his  umbrella  and  his 
departure.  I  whispered  to  Flatow: 

"  I  will  bet  you  half  a  crown  you  don't  get  that  man  to 
subscribe." 

"  Done  with  you  !"  said  Flatow,  and  immediately  went 
to  the  young  visitor  and,  touching  his  hat,  said:  "I  beg 
pardon,  sir  —  have  you  seen  a  specimen  of  the  manner  in 
which  this  wonderful  picture  is  about  to  be  engraved?" 

"  N-no,"  drawled  the  dandy. 

The  umbrella  was  put  back,  and  the  visitor  returned  to 
the  picture  in  the  custody  of  Flatow.  In  a  very  few 
moments  he  came  back  in  the  act  of  buttoning  his  gloves; 
betrayer  and  victim  exchanged  farewell  salutes,  and  the 
former,  rejoining  me,  said: 

"  I  will  trouble  you  for  two-and-sixpence  !" 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  PRINCE  OP  WAIVES. w 

THE  great  success  that  had  attended  my  modern  -  life 
subjects  encouraged  me  to  further  effort  in  the  same  di- 
rection, and  I  forthwith  arranged  compositions  for  three 
pictures  of  London  street  scenes,  to  be  called  "  Morning," 
"Noon,"  and  "Night"  The  first  represented  the  early 
dawn  of  a  summer's  morning,  with  a  variety  of  incidents 
possible  to  the  occasion;  homeless  wanderers,  asleep  and 
sleepless;  burglars  stopped  by  police  red-handed;  flower- 
girls  returning  from  Covent  Garden  with  their  early 
purchases ;  belated  young  gentlemen  whose  condition 
sufficiently  proved  that  the  evening's  amusement  would 
not  bear  the  morning's  reflection  ;  with  other  episodes 
more  or  less  characteristic. 

In  "  Noon  "  the  mige-en-sctne  was  Regent  Street  in  full 
tide  of  active  life.  Ladies  in  carriages,  costermongers  in 
donkey-carts,  dog-sellers,  a  blind  beggar  conducted  across 
the  street  by  his  daughter  and  his  dog,  foreigners  study- 
ing a  map  of  bewildering  London,  etc.,  etc.  The  night 
scene  was  intended  for  the  Haymarket  by  moonlight,  the 
main  incident  being  the  exit  of  the  audience  from  the 
theatre;  a  party  is  about  to  enter  a  carriage,  and  a  gentle- 
man is  placing  a  young  lady's  cloak  closely  about  her 
shoulders,  in  tender,  lover-like  fashion.  This  is  being  ob- 
served by  an  overdressed  and  berouged  woman,  whose 
general  aspect  plainly  proclaims  her  unhappy  position;  and 
by  the  expression  of  her  faded  though  still  handsome  face, 
she  feels  a  bitter  pang  at  having  lost  forever  all  claim  to 
manly  care  or  pure  affection. 

How  I  should  have  delighted  in  trying  to  realize  all  that 
these  subjects  were  capable  of,  no  tongue  can  tell;  but  I 
will  describe  as  briefly  as  possible  how  that,  to  me,  most 


236  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

desirable  consummation  was  prevented.  I  had  the  honor 
of  being  desired  to  paint  a  picture  of  the  marriage  of  the 
princess  royal  and  the  Prince  of  Prussia.  The  "com- 
mand "  surprised  me  in  the  act  of  finishing  the  "  Derby 
Day,"  and  I  was  permitted  to  urge  the  claims  of  that 
work,  and  its  owners,  as  an  excuse  for  declining  a  task 
afterwards  so  ably  performed  by  my  friend  Phillip;  but 
when  I  was  again  summoned  to  a  more  formidable  effort 
in  the  shape  of  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  I 
felt  I  must  obey;  though  I  was  aware  of  the  fearful  diffi- 
culties that  such  a  subject  presented — scarcely  exagger- 
ated by  what  Landseer  said  to  me  when  he  heard  of  my 
temerity :  "  So  you  are  going  to  do  the  marriage  picture  ? 
Well!  for  all  the  money  in  this  world,  and  all  in  the  next, 
I  wouldn't  undertake  such  a  thing."  Not  much  appalled 
by  this  and  other  warnings,  undertake  it  I  did;  and  the 
street  scenes,  for  which  I  was  to  receive  the  incredible  sum 
of  ten  thousand  pounds  from  Mr.  Gambart,  a  well-known 
and  esteemed  dealer  of  that  time,  were  put  on  one  side. 

To  satisfy  those  who  might  quite  excusably  refuse  to 
believe  in  the  folly  of  such  an  offer  (it  was  an  offer,  for 
my  impudence,  great  as  it  was,  must  not  be  credited  with 
such  an  audacious  demand),  I  append  the  agreement  which 
legally  bound  painter  and  purchaser  to  the  terms  of  the 
engagement: 

"Memorandum  of  agreement  made  this  twenty-ninth  day  of  August, 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty-two,  between  William  Powell 
Frith,  of  No.  10,  Pembridge  Villas,  Bayswater,  in  the  County  of  Mid- 
dlesex, Esquire,  R.A.,  of  the  one  part,  and  Ernest  Gambart,  of  No.  120, 
Pall  Mall,  in  the  said  County,  Esquire,  of  the  other  part. 
"  The  said  William  Powell  Frith  agrees  to  accept  a  commission  to  paint 
for  the  said  Ernest  Gambart,  and  the  said  Ernest  Garabart  agrees  to  give 
a  commission  to  paint,  three  pictures  by  the  said  William  Powell  Frith, 
and  to  be  called  '  The  Streets  of  London '  (such  pictures  to  consist  of 
three  parts  as  hereafter  mentioned) ;  and  the  said  William  Powell  Frith 
agrees  to  sell  the  copyright  therein,  together  with  the  original  sketches 
thereof,  and  all  further  sketches  or  drawings  made  or  to  be  made  in  fur- 
therance of  the  said  pictures,  for  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  pounds,  to  be 
paid  by  instalments  as  follows,  namely :  Five  hundred  pounds  on  the  sign- 
ing of  this  agreement ;  five  hundred  pounds  at  the  expiration  of  three 
calendar  months  from  the  commencement  of  the  said  pictures,  and  a  like 
sum  of  five  hundred  pounds  at  the  expiration  of  every  succeeding  three 


"TilE   MARRIAGE    OF   THE   PBINCB  OF    WALES."       237 

calendar  months  until  the  whole  of  the  said  sum  of  ten  thousand  pounds 
shall  be  paid,  or  until  the  said  pictures  shall  be  completed ;  in  case  the 
same  shall  be  completed  before,  the  said  sum  of  ten  thousand  pounds  shall 
be  fully  paid,  in  which  case  the  balance  which  shall  be  then  unpaid  shall 
immediately,  upon  such  completion  and  delivery  of  the  said  paintings  and 
sketches,  be  paid. 

(Signed)  "  W.  P.  FRITH, 

"ERNEST  GAMBART." 


With  the  final  clauses  of  the  agreement — being  solely 
legal  technicalities — it  is  unnecessary  to  trouble  the  reader. 

I  again  quote  from  my  diary: 

"  Sunday,  Jan.  13,  '68. — In  the  evening  a  letter  from 
Eastlake,  to  say  the  queen  wished  me  to  paint  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Prince  of  Wales." 

"  Jan.  18. — Gambart  called,  and  agreed  to  the  postpone- 
ment of  the  street  pictures  in  consequence  of  the  queen's 
wish  that  I  should  paint  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales." 

"  Jan.  29. — Sir  C.  Phipps  writes  to  say  the  queen  agrees 
to  my  terms  for  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales — 
three  thousand  pounds." 

"  March  10. — Sees  me  in  a  court  suit,  sword,  etc.,  at  the 
marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  ;  a  glorious  subject  for 
pageantry  and  color.  I  like  the  subject,  and  think  I  can 
make  a  great  deal  of  it." 

This  marriage  ceremony,  though  somewhat  longer  than 
the  usual  one,  was  all  too  short  for  sketching  possibilities. 
The  whole  scene  must  be  remembered;  and,  beyond  notes 
of  the  positions  of  the  various  personages  in  the  chapel, 
which  I  entered  in  my  sketch-book,  I  made  no  use  of  it. 
The  ceremony  left  such  a  vivid  impression  upon  my  mind 
that  I  found  no  difficulty  in  preparing  a  tolerable  sketch 
of  the  general  effect;  and  in  due  course  I  was  permitted 
to  submit  my  attempt  to  the  queen.  On  Tuesday,  the  7th 
of  April,  I  find  ray  diary  says:  "To  Windsor  to  see  the 
queen,  who  spent  more  than  half  an  hour  with  me. 
Seemed  to  be  much  pleased  with  the  sketch,  and  was  most 
agreeable;  consented  to  all  I  proposed.  The  picture  to  be 
ten  feet  long.  All  charming  so  far." 

"  So  far  and  no  farther,"  for  all  too  soon  did  my  troubles 


238  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

begin.  Letters  had  to  be  written  by  the  score;  answers 
came  sometimes,  and  sometimes  silence  was  the  answer. 
In  my  applications  for  sittings  and  dresses  I  had  forgotten 
to  say  that  the  picture  was  painted  for,  and  by  command 
of,  the  queen;  when  that  announcement  was  added,  con- 
sent in  most  cases  came  readily  enough.  All  the  brides- 
maids but  one  promised  to  give  me  every  advantage. 
From  one  lady  I  received  no  reply;  but  in  place  of  it  a 
visit  from  her  mother,  whom  I  found  in  a  bewildered  con- 
dition in  my  drawing-room.  As  I  entered,  the  lady  — who 
was  looking  with  a  puzzled  expression  at  the  different 
ornaments  in  the  room — turned  to  me  and  said: 

"  I  think  I  have  made  a  mistake;  it  is  the  artist  Frith  I 
wish  to  see." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  am  that  individual." 

"  Oh,  really!  and  this  is  your — this  is  where  you  live  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  I,  "this  is  where  I  live;"  then  mentally, 
"and  not  in  the  garret  where  you  had  evidently  been 
taught  that  most  artists  reside;  and  as  I  have  a  coal-cellar 
I  am  not  forced  to  keep  my  fuel  in  a  corner  of  the  garret, 
and  I  am  not  always  dining  on  the  traditional  red  herring." 

"  Oh,  then  I  have  called  in  reply  to  a  letter  from  you, 

asking  my  daughter,  Lady  ,  who  was  one  of  the 

princess's  bridesmaids,  to  sit  for  a  picture,  to  tell  you  it  is 
impossible  for  her  to  sit;  and  as  to  her  dress,  which  you 
ask  for,  she  cannot  spare  it." 

"Indeed,"  I  replied,  "I  am  sorry  to  hear  this;  however, 
I  will  represent  what  you  tell  me  to  the  queen,  and  I 
dare  say  I  shall  be  allowed  to  substitute  one  of  my 
models,  who  must  play  the  part  of  bridesmaid  instead  of 
Lady  -  —  ? 

My  visitor  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  which,  being 
interpreted,  said  as  plainly  as  words,  "What  does  this 
man  mean  with  his  queen,  and  his  model,  and  his  inde- 
pendent, impertinent  manner  !"  After  a  pause  she  said: 

"Why  are  you  painting  this  picture?  What  is  it  for? 
Can  I  see  it  ?" 

"  If  you  will  walk  this  way,"  pointing  to  my  painting- 
room,  "  I  shall  be  happy  to  show  it  to  you." 

"What  a  queer  place!     Why  do  you  shut  up  part  of 


"THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  PRINCE  OP  WALES."     239 

your  window  ?    Oh,  that  is  the  picture!     Well,  what  is  it 
done  for  ?" 

"  It  is  done  for  the  queen." 

"  Done  for  the  queen  ?    Who  presents  it  to  the  queen  ?" 

"  Nobody — the  queen  presents  it  to  herself;  at  any  rate, 
she  pays  for  it." 

"  Really  ?" 

"Yes,  really."  Then  in  my  most  respectful  manner  I 
added,  "  I  am  well  aware  how  much  young  ladies  arc  en- 
gaged, and  how  disagreeable  it  must  be  for  them  to  waste 
time  in  sitting  to  artists  when  it  can  be  so  much  more  use- 
fully occupied;  so  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  tell  her 
majesty,  through  Lady  Augusta  Bruce,  that  your  daughter 
is  unable,"  etc. 

After  another  pause,  and  in  a  somewhat  petulant  tone, 
the  lady  said: 

"  Really,  I  think  the  queen,  when  she  asks  ladies  to  be 
bridesmaids,  should  tell  them  that  they  may  be  called 
upon  to  go  through  the  sort  of  penance  you  propose  to 
inflict  upon  my  daughter." 

"  I  thought  I  had  made  it  clear  that  I  should  prefer  to 
use  one  of  my  models  than  that  your  daughter  should  be 
annoyed;  and  if  you  find  she  cannot  consent  I  will  write 
to  Lady  Augusta  Bruce,"  etc. 

"  Well,  good-morning.  I  will  let  you  know;  I  will  see 
what  my  daughter  says." 

The  young  lady  came,  and  was  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able of  my  sitters.  Though  I  lost  not  a  moment  in  im- 
pressing on  all  who  were  present  at  the  wedding  that  I 
must  have  their  dresses  to  paint  from,  I  was  told  by  sev- 
eral that  the  gowns  were  already  taken  to  pieces  (to  one 
of  which  I  was  welcome),  given  away,  or  cut  up  into  me- 
mentoes of  the  interesting  event,  etc.  In  reply,  I  threat- 
ened them  with  the  queen  if  the  dresses  were  not  pro- 
duced; and,  strange  to  say,  the  destroyed  ones  became 
miraculously  whole  again  and  were  sent  to  me.  So  far  I 
was  successful  with  the  English,  but  with  the  foreigners 
I  was  beaten  now  and  then.  The  Duchess  of  Brabant, 
now  Queen  of  the  Belgians,  wore  a  magnificent  robe  of 
moire  antique  of  a  lovely  purple  color.  She  was  a  very 


240  MY    AUTOBIOGBA.PHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

handsome  woman,  in  a  prominent  position  in  the  fore- 
ground; in  fact,  in  what  we  call  the  very  "eye  of  the 
picture."  Those  days  were  days  of  crinoline,  and  the 
space  taken  up  in  the  picture  was  great;  and  great  was 
my  distress  when  I  was  told  that  the  duchess  had  already 
departed,  and  the  robes  had  vanished  also.  Those  who 
knew  Lady  Augusta  Bruce  (afterwards  wife  of  the  Dean 
of  Westminster)  do  not  require  to  be  told  that  she  was 
one  of  the  most  delightful  women  that  ever  lived;  her 
kindness  to  me  in  all  my  troubles  I  can  never  forget.  We 
grieved  together  over  the  absent  duchess's  dress,  and  Lady 
Augusta  said: 

"  We  are  going  to  Cobourg,  and  I  will  try  to  manage 
it." 

In  a  letter  written  to  my  sister,  dated  August  23,  1863, 
I  find  the  following: 

"  I  have  had  a  long  letter  from  Lady  Augusta  from  Cobourg.  She  has 
succeeded  in  getting  me  the  Duchess  of  Brabant's  robes,  but  not  without 
the  queen  herself  having  to  intercede  for  them,  and  I  am  to  pledge  myself 
neither  to  smoke  nor  drink  beer  in  their  presence." 

I  kept  my  word  with  some  difficulty  as  regards  smok- 
ing, easily  in  respect  of  beer;  but  why  these  restrictions  ! 
On  Lady  Augusta's  return  the  mystery  was  solved.  The 
duchess  had  lent  dresses  to  Belgian  painters,  who  had 
returned  them  not  only  smelling  of  tobacco,  but  beer- 
stained  also. 

The  Danish  princes  and  princesses  baffled  me  com- 
pletely. They  had  no  time  in  the  short  space  allowed 
them  in  England  to  sit  to  be  painted — scarcely  for  their 
photographs.  I  had  therefore  to  trust  to  that  most  un- 
satisfactory process  for  my  likenesses  of  them,  which  are 
consequently  the  worst  in  all  respects  in  the  whole  picture; 
and  if  I  had  not  had  a  friend  at  the  Court  of  Denmark  I 
should  have  been  left  lamenting  for  the  dresses,  orders, 
helmets,  etc.,  of  the  male  personages.  With  regard  to  the 
ladies,  not  the  slightest  help  was  afforded  me.  The  pres- 
ent Queen  of  Denmark  and  the  Princess  Dagmar,  now 
Empress  of  Russia,  were  painted  from  photographs,  and 
the  Duchess  of  Brabant  from  description  only.  The  King 


"TUB    MAURI  AGE    OP   THE    PRINCE    OF    WALES."       241 

of  Greece  never  sat  at  all;  but  a  very  charming  young 
man,  Prince  Frederick — an  elder  brother  of  the  Grecian 
King,  and  a  student  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge — came  to 
Windsor  on  a  visit  to  the  queen  and  the  Crown  Prince  of 
Prussia  (then  staying  at  the  castle),  and  gave  me  a  sitting; 
the  crown  prince  staying  with  us  the  while  to  amuse  the 
young  gentleman,  which  he  seemed  to  do  most  effectually, 
for  the  two  never  ceased  talking — in  a  language  that  I  did 
not  understand — for  an  hour  and  a  half  at  least.  When 
the  sitting  was  over,  a  difficulty  took  place  at  the  door  of 
the  Rubens  room — my  temporary  studio — as  to  which  of 
the  two  young  men  should  take  precedence;  there  they 
stood,  each  refusing  to  go  first,  till  at  last  the  Crown 
Prince  of  Prussia  cut  the  knot  by  backing  through  the 
doorway,  the  Dane  following  face  to  face. 

The  Danish  prince  left  immediately  for  his  college;  and 
when  he  next  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  Prince 
of  Prussia,  it  was  on  one  of  the  battle-fields  in  Schleswig- 
Holstein. 

When  the  crown  princess  was  sitting  for  me,  she  en- 
deavored to  make  me  understand  the  Schleswig-Holstein 
difficulty.  She  talked  most  admirably,  and  no  doubt  would 
have  succeeded  in  enlightening  an  ordinary  understand- 
ing; but  the  difficulty  becomes  great  when  the  listener  is 
also  occupied  in  a  painful  endeavor  to  catch  a  likeness. 
Anyway,  I  could  not  understand  the  pro  and  con  of  the 
dispute  between  the  powers. 

One  of  the  most  picturesque  and  conspicuous  figures  at 
the  marriage  was  the  Maharajah  Dhuleep  Singh.  He  wore 
the  Eastern  dress  and  was  covered  with  jewels — I  was 
about  to  say  blazed  with  them — but  the  diamonds,  being 
uncut,  looked  to  me  like  bits  of  dull  glass,  with  just  as 
much  glitter.  They  had  to  be  painted,  however,  and  the 
prince  was  willing  to  wear  them;  but,  as  they  were  of 
fabulous  value,  he  was  naturally  reluctant  to  leave  them 
with  me;  and  he  was  only  induced  to  do  so  on  the  condi- 
tion that  his  servant  remained  with  them,  and  with  the 
understanding  that  they  were  to  be  deposited  each  night 
at  Coutts's  Bank.  This  the  servant  promised;  but,  seeing 
that  I  possessed  a  burglar-proof  iron  safe,  he  trusted  them 
11 


242  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

to  its  keeping,  and  me  with  the  keys,  remarking  :  "  Now, 
if  the  prince  knew  of  this,  he  would  be  awake  all  night." 

My  diary  again  records  day  after  day  of  incessant  work. 
I  must  quote  from  it,  and  largely  also  from  letters  written 
to  my  sister  at  the  time.  The  bridesmaids  were  kindness 
itself;  and  if  any  representation  of  them  fails  in  likeness 
or  otherwise,  the  fault  is  not  theirs.  My  regard  for  truth 
compels  me  to  say  they  were  not  all  beautiful,  but  one 
left  little  to  be  desired  in  that  respect.  Lady  Diana  Beau- 
clerk,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans,  was  not  only 
beautiful,  but  as  agreeable  as  she  was  handsome. 

On  the  20th  of  May  my  diary  says  :  "At  12  came  the 
Duchess  of  St.  Albans  and  her  daughter,  the  Lady  Diana 
Beauclerk — a  most  sweet  creature — who  sat  divinely  for 
nearly  three  hours.  I  made  a  lovely  beginning.  Later 
in  the  day  came  S.  Oxon,  who  stayed  twenty  minutes  to 
no  purpose." 

I  must  say,  however,  for  the  bishop,  that,  on  the  whole, 
he  was  a  very  satisfactory  sitter — giving  me  every  oppor- 
tunity, of  which  I  availed  myself  to  good  purpose.  I  can- 
not refrain  from  recording  an  incident  in  connection  with 
the  bishop's  likeness. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  "Westbury  and  the  bishop  came  to 
loggerheads  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Westbury  spoke  of 
the  "saponaceous  prelate,"  and  used  other  disrespectful 
expressions  in  a  discussion  on  some  forgotten  subject. 
The  bishop,  in  reply,  begged  the  learned  lord,  if  he  had  no 
respect  for  himself,  to  respect  the  assembly  in  which  he, 
perhaps  unexpectedly — the  bishop  would  not  say  unde- 
servedly— found  himself. 

When  the  lord  chancellor  sat  for  me,  his  eye  caught  the 
form  of  the  Bishop  of  Oxford,  and  he  said  :  "  Ah  !  Sam 
of  Oxford.  I  should  have  thought  it  impossible  to  pro- 
duce a  tolerably  agreeable  face,  and  yet  preserve  any  re- 
semblance to  the  Bishop  of  Oxford."  And  when  the 
bishop  saw  my  portrait  of  Westbury,  he  said  :  "  Like  him  ? 
yes  ;  but  not  wicked  enough." 

The  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons,  Denison,  after- 
wards Lord  Ossington,  told  me  the  following  anecdote  of 
Lord  Westbury  : 


"THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  PRIXCE  OF  WALES."     243 

"  Lord  Ebury  had  brought  into  the  House  of  Lords  a  bill 
with  the  object  of  effecting  certain  changes  in  the  Burial 
Service;  several  animated  discussions  had  taken  place,  just 
at  the  time  that  some  unpleasant  disclosures  were  revealed 
in  which  Lord  Westbury  was  implicated,  and  which  led 
to  his  resignation  of  the  chancellorship.  The  noble  lord 
announced  his  resignation  in  a  speech  which  his  friends 
said  was  pathetic  enough  to  melt  the  hearts  of  his  hearers; 
but  which  his  enemies  said  was  a  masterpiece  of  affected 
repentance  and  hypocritical  mockery.  The  House  was 
greatly  moved,  and  as  the  lord  chancellor  was  leaving  it 
he  met  Lord  Ebury,  and  said  to  him  :  'My  lord,  you  can 
now  read  the  Burial  Service  over  me,  with  any  alteration 
you  think  proper.' " 

My  mention  of  the  speaker  reminds  me  of  his  being  the 
possessor  of  a  study  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  which  I 
sold  to  him  after  using  it  for  the  larger  picture.  I  don't 
know  the  exact  age  of  the  princess  at  the  time  of  her  mar- 
riage, and  should  be  careful  to  keep  it  to  myself  if  I  did; 
but  she  was  very  young  and  very  beautiful,  as  all  the 
world  knows.  She  very  graciously  consented  to  come  to 
my  house,  and  to  afford  me  every  assistance  in  the  way  of 
sittings  for  my  picture. 

The  princess  is  well  known  for  her  kindness  of  heart. 
Ah  !  how  that  heart  would  have  ached  if  its  owner  had 
realized  the  aching  of  mine,  when  I,  too  soon,  discovered 
that  the  illustrious  young  lady  did  not  know  that  the 
keeping  her  face  in  one  position,  for  a  few  minutes  even, 
was  necessary  to  enable  an  artist  to  catch  a  resemblance 
of  it.  That  first  sitting  can  I  ever  forget  ?  I  did  not  dare 
to  complain  till  after  two  or  three  more  fruitless  attempts. 
With  downright  failure  staring  me  in  the  face,  I  opened 
my  heart  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  "  You  should  scold 
her,"  said  the  prince. 

Just  at  this  time  the  princess  was  sitting  for  her  bust  to 
the  celebrated  sculptor  Gibson,  R.A.,  in  a  room  at  Marl- 
borough  House.  I  was  sent  for  by  the  prince,  and,  before 
I  was  admitted  to  an  interview,  I  was  shown  into  the 
sculptor's  studio,  and  found  him  waiting  for  a  sitting  from 
the  princess.  The  bust  was  already  in  an  advanced  stage. 


244  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I  did  not  think  it  was  very  like,  and,  in  reply  to  Gibson, 
said  so.  "  Well,  you  see,"  said  Gibson,  "  the  princess  is  a 
delightful  lady,  but  she  can't  sit  a  bit." 

Just  at  this  moment  I  was  summoned  to  the  prince, 
whom  I  found  with  the  princess;  and  I  saw,  or  thought  I 
saw,  a  sort  of  pretty  smiling  pout,  eloquent  of  reproof, 
and  of  half-anger  with  me.  The  prince  had  something  to 
show  me — photographs,  I  think — and  then  he  led  the  way 
to  Gibson;  the  princess  and  I  following. 

No  sooner  did  we  find  ourselves  in  the  sculptor's  pres- 
ence, than — after  some  remarks  upon  the  bust — the  prince 
said  :  "  How  do  you  find  the  princess  sit,  Mr.  Gibson  ?" 
"  Now,"  thought  I,  "if  ever  man  was  in  an  awkward  fix, 
you  are,  Mr.  Gibson;  for,  after  what  you  said  to  me  a  few 
minutes  ago,  you  cannot,  in  my  presence,  compliment  the 
beautiful  model  on  her  sitting." 

The  prince  looked  at  Gibson,  and  Gibson  looked  in  dead 
silence  at  the  prince,  and  then  at  the  princess;  he  then 
looked  again  at  the  prince,  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  There,  you  see,  you  neither  sit  properly  to  Mr.  Gibson 
nor  to  Mr.  Frith." 

"  I  do — I  do,"  said  the  lady.    "  You  are  two  bad  men  !" 

And  then  we  all  smiled;  and  Gibson  went  on  with  his 
work,  the  princess  sitting  admirably  for  the  short  time 
that  I  remained. 

This  was  a  good  omen,  as  I  afterwards  found;  for  the 
princess  sat  most  kindly  and  steadily  for  me  at  Windsor  ; 
and  I  quite  believe  that  the  seemingly  naughty  behavior 
during  the  first  sittings  arose  from  her  ignorance  of  the 
necessity  for  a  fair  amount  of  carefulness  in  keeping  the 
position  required. 

The  prince's  sittings,  and  unvarying  considerate  kind- 
ness, left  nothing  to  be  desired.  The  same  must  be  said 
of  all  the  princesses;  and  to  enforce  this,  I  may  quote  from 
a  letter  written  at  the  time  to  my  sister : 

"  WINDSOR,  Nov.  8,  1863. 

"  Here  we  are  cheek  by  jowl  (rather  a  vulgar  expression  that)  with  roy- 
alty, and  if  painting  were  not  so  difficult,  it  would  be  very  delightful  in- 
deed; for  nothing  can  exceed  the  kindness  of  everybody  with  whom  I 
come  in  contact.  And  how  the  stories  have  arisen  about  artists'  time 


"TIIK    MARRIAGE    OF   THE   PRINCE    OF    WALES."       245 

being  wasted,  I  can't  think ;  for  with  me  the  royalties  come  to  their  time, 
and  sit  admirably,  save  that  the  sittings  are  shorter  than  I  like.  The 
queen  sits  to-morrow  from  one  till  two.  I  have  tried  hard  to  get  her  to 
sit  for  an  hour  and  a  half;  but  she  says  she  cannot  spare  the  time  at  once, 
and  would  rather  sit  any  number  of  times  an  hour  at  a  time.  The  queen 
is  most  kind  ;  but  I  can  tell  you  more  about  all  concerned  to-morrow.  As 
to  the  princesses,  they  would  be  considered  most  charming  girls  anywhere ; 
none  of  their  photographs  do  them  justice.  The  difficulty  is  to  keep  in 
mind  in  whose  presence  you  are — they  laugh  and  talk  so  familiarly,  and 
still  sit  well.  Princess  Beatrice,  too,  is  a  most  sweet  little  creature,  and 
as  I  took  Princess  Helena's  advice,  and  overawed  her  a  little,  she  sat  right 
well ;  but  she  began  to  take  liberties  at  last,  and  I  am  afraid  next  time  I 
shall  be  troubled  to  keep  her  quiet.  As  to  Prince  William  of  Prussia,  of 
all  the  little  Turks  he  is  one  of  the  worst ;  and  how  I  am  to  get  a  likeness 
of  him  I  don't  know.  I  let  him  paint  a  little  on  the  picture,  which  de- 
lighted him.  At  the  same  time  I  was  painting  Princess  Beatrice's  dress 
from  the  lay  figure,  when  the  door  of  the  Rubens  room  (where  I  am  at 
work)  was  thrown  open,  and  a  man  shouted,  as  if  he  were  proposing  a  toast 
at  a  public  dinner, '  The  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  and  the  Royal  Family.' 
And  in  marched  the  crown  prince  (who  had  arrived  at  the  castle  unex- 
pectedly) with  his  three  children,  their  nurses,  and  all  the  English  prin- 
cesses and  their  attendants.  Fortunately  the  room  is  an  immense  one,  or 
it  would  have  been  filled ;  and  of  all  the  rows  ! — those  children,  shouting, 
laughing,  and  romping  with  the  princesses.  I  was  looking  at  little  Prince 
William,  and  talking  to  Princess  Helena,  when  the  royal  imp  looked  up  in 
my  face  and  said:  'Mr.  FifT,  you  are  a  nice  man;  but  your  whiskers — ' 
when  the  princess  stopped  his  mouth  with  her  hand.  He  struggled  to 
get  her  hand  away,  and  again  said,  'Your  whiskers — '  when  she  stopped 
him  again,  blushing,  and  laughing  till  she  could  scarcely  move.  However, 
they  carried  the  youngster  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  soon  brought 
him  back  to  good  manners.  The  crown  prince — who  is  one  of  the  finest 
and  most  manly-looking  figures  I  ever  saw — sat  for  a  while,  and  I  did  the 
outline  of  his  head,  and  shall  make  a  very  successful  thing  of  him.  The 
crown  princess  comes  on  Tuesday,  when  I  hope  to  get  a  nice  likeness 
of  her.  .  .  .  Little  Prince  William  calls  the  picture  '  Uncle  Wales's  Wed- 
ding.' The  princesses  always  speak  of  the  queen  as  '  mamma,'  and  th.ey 
are  altogether  like  a  happy  middle-class  family.  And  now  I  think  I  have 
told  you  enough  till  next  time. 

"  I  am,  as  ever, 

"  Your  affectionate  brother." 

The  whisker  mystery  was  never  revealed,  but  I  inflicted 
a  very  unintentional  and  regretted  punishment  on  the  lit- 
tle boy,  which  I  fancy  he  may  remember  to  this  day.  The 
picture  of  the  marriage  was  ten  feet  long,  and,  as  I  said 
above,  I  portioned  off  one  of  the  lower  corners  of  it — 
—about  a  foot  square — which  I  lent  to  the  young  prince 


246  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

(he  was  about  seven  years  old,  I  think)  to  paint  a  picture 
upon,  giving  him  paints  and  brushes,  but  telling  him  to 
keep  strictly  within  the  boundaries  of  his  own  property. 
I  was  working  quietly  at  ray  part  of  the  picture  when  I 
was  roused  by  an  exclamation  of  alarm  from  the  lady  in 
whose  charge  the  prince  always  came  to  me,  who  cried  : 
"Look  at  his  face!     What  has  he  been  doing  to  it?" 
Well,  he  had  simply  been  wiping  his  brushes  upon  it, 
for  it  was  streaked  with  vermilion,  bright  blue,  and  other 
pigments. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  If  the  princess  should  see  him 
she  would —  " 

" Oh,"  said  I,  "I  can  easily  remove  the  paint." 
And  so  saying  I  dipped  some  clean  rag  into  turpentine 
and  effectually  rubbed  off  the  color,  or,  to  be  correct,  I  was 
rapidly  removing  it,  when  I  was  stopped  by  violent  screams 
from  the  young  gentleman,  accompanied  by  a  severe  cuff 
from  his  little  fist.  The  turpentine  had  found  out  a  little 
spot  or  scratch  on  his  face,  and  no  doubt  gave  him  great 
pain — great  indeed,  if  one  might  take  scream  after  scream 
as  a  proof.  He  tore  away  from  me,  after  a  parting  kick, 
and  took  refuge  under  a  large  table  and  yelled  till  he  was 
tired,  his  governess  the  while  in  terror  that  he  might  be 
heard. 

I  don't  think  he  forgot  or  forgave  my  "  remedial  efforts," 
for  he  took  much  pleasure  after  in  tormenting  me  by  sit- 
ting so  badly  that  I  failed  in  producing  anything  in  the 
picture  resembling  him.  This  young  gentleman  is  now 
married  and  is  a  father,  and  I  trust  a  happy  one. 

•It  was  a  matter  of  regret  to  me  that  I  was  deprived,  by 
the  lamented  death  of  the  prince  consort,  of  a  critic  whose 
remarks  would  have  been  of  great  use  to  me.  Of  all  the 
princesses,  I  think  the  crown  princess  showed  the  great- 
est knowledge  of  the  principles  of  art.  The  queen,  being 
herself  an  artist  of  experience  and  ability,  more  than  once 
assisted  me  by  suggestions.  Among  the  many  sitters 
who  came  to  me  was  one  who  much  interested  me — the 
Honorable  Something  Byng,  called  "Poodle"  Byng — a 
man  of  fashion  about  town  in  the  early  part  of  this  cen- 
tury, a  contemporary  and  friend  of  Brummel,  about  whom 


"THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES."     247 

he  had  many  stories.  Mr.  Byng  was  a  very  old  gentleman 
when  he  assisted  at  the  wedding  of  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
as  is  abundantly  proved  by  the  fact  of  his  having  been  at 
the  marriage  of  George  IV.,  who,  when  Prince  of  Wales, 
was  united  to  Caroline  of  Brunswick  in  1795.  Mr.  Byng, 
then  a  boy  of  sixteen,  perfectly  remembered  the  whole 
scene,  and  as  perfectly  described  it  to  me. 

"Those  were  drinking-days,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  and  the  prince  never  spared  the  bottle.  The  company 
had  been  some  time  assembled  at  St.  James's  Palace,  wait- 
ing for  the  prince,  without  whom,  yon  know,  the  cere- 
mony could  not  take  place,  the  king  and  queen  sitting  in 
great  impatience;  the  king  now  and  again  tapping  the 
floor  with  his  foot,  then  saying  something  in  an  angry 
tone  to  the  queen.  At  last  in  came  the  prince,  attended 
by  some  gentlemen — I  forget  who  they  were — his  face 
flushed,  you  know,  and  a  little  uncertain  on  his  legs.  The 
king  looked  very  black  at  him,  I  can  tell  you.  However, 
he  got  through  very  well.  The  princess  was  very  nervous." 

"  Was  she  pretty  ?"  asked  I. 

"  Well,  no — fresh,  healthy-looking  woman,  though — but 
about  as  opposite  to  this  princess  as  George  IV.  was  to 
our  prince." 

At  the  time  Mr.  Byng  sat  to  me  he  was  considerably 
over  eighty.  He  lived  in  Duke  Street,  St.  James's,  and 
always  walked  to  and  from  Bayswater;  and  boasted  of 
the  feat,  in  which  he  was  justified,  I  think. 

I  remember  with  peculiar  pleasure  my  short  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Duchess  of  Cambridge  and  Princess  Mary. 
Both  those  ladies  sat  delightfully,  and  I  think  I  succeeded 
in  producing  fair  likenesses  of  them. 

Sir  Edward  Cust — a  distinguished  authority  on  matters 
of  warfare — was  Master  of  Ceremonies  to  the  Court,  and 
took  his  place  in  St.  George's  Chapel  as  a  matter  of  right. 
He  sat  to  me  many  times,  and  on  one  occasion,  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  a  summer's  day,  when  I  was  much  fatigued  by 
my  day's  work,  I  said: 

"I  feel  a  little  tired,  Sir  Edward;  would  you  mind  my 
smoking  a  cigar?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  replied  Sir  Edward,  "  if  you  don't 


248  MY    AUTOBIOGKAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

mind  my  being  sick,  which  I  certainly  shall  be  the  mo- 
ment you  begin." 

The  Maharajah  Dhuleep  Singh  had  a  face  of  a  hand- 
some type,  but  somewhat  expressionless.  It  seemed 
strange  to  me  to  find  myself  painting  from  one  who  was 
born  ruler  of  a  bigger  country  than  England,  who  had 
been  dragged  across  the  sea,  jewels  and  all,  to  assist  at  the 
wedding  of  a  barbarian  on  a  little  Western  island,  and — 
what  he  may  have  considered  an  additional  punishment — 
he  was  made  to  sit  for  his  likeness,  and  compelled  to  lend 
his  treasured  jewels  to  be  copied  by  an  infidel  whose  neck 
it  might  have  been  his  delight  to  wring  if  it  had  been  in 
his  power.  He  is  a  thoroughly  good  young  man,  his  ser- 
vant told  me:  "he  reads  no  book  but  the  Bible,  which  he 
knows  from  cover  to  cover."  He  told  me  he  used  to  be 
decorated  with  the  Koh-i-Noor  when  a  boy,  and  he  was 
very  pleased  that  the  queen  was  now  the  possessor  of 
that  remarkable  jewel. 

I  think  it  must  be  admitted  that  as  sitters  for  their  pict- 
ures, the  men  bear  away  the  palm  from  the  ladies.  There 
are  exceptions,  of  course,  on  both  sides,  but,  so  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  I  have  found  the  male  more  patient  than 
the  female;  the  result  being — notably  in  the  picture  in 
question — a  superiority  of  likeness  in  all  the  men.  The 
Prince  of  Saxe- Weimar,  the  Prince  of  Leiningen,  the 
crown  prince,  and  many  others,  were  model  sitters,  patient, 
good-natured,  and  tolerant — perhaps  indifferent — of  the, 
sometimes,  unflattering  result  of  their  patience.  Not  so 
some  of  the  ladies.  One — the  aged  wife  of  an  ambassa- 
dor— was  so  shocked  by  my  portrait  of  her  that  she  im- 
plored me  to  rub  it  out.  She  spoke  imperfect  English, 
and  she  said,  "  Oh,  mister,  that  is  not  me.  I  cannot  have 
grown  like  that.  I  will  give  you  my  likeness  to  copy;" 
and  she  sent  me  a  drawing  done  from  her  when  she  was  a 
lovely  girl  of  eighteen,  with  an  urgent  request  that  I 
would  correct  my  libel  of  her  immediately.  I  declined; 
and  tlie  figure  remains,  a  by  no  means  unflattercd  copy  of 
a  very  plain  old  lady. 

The   bishops   were,  one   and  all,  delightful.     Longley, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  who  in   his  early  days  was 


"THE  MARRIAGE  OF  TIIE  PBIJJCE  OF  WALES."     249 

head-master  of  Harrow,  sat  many  times,  and  amused  me 
by  anecdotes.  On  one  occasion,  he  told  me,  as  he  was 
passing  one  of  the  houses  at  Harrow  occupied  by  students, 
he  saw  a  rope  dangling  from  one  of  the  windows.  He 
seized  the  rope,  and  instantly  found  it  pulled  so  vigorous- 
ly from  the  other  end,  that  his  feet  were  off  the  ground, 
and  he  was  hanging  in  the  air  and  drawn  slowly  up  to 
the  window  before  he  had  time  to  think  of  the  danger  of 
his  position.  Most  fortunately  the  window  was  not  far 
from  the  ground,  for  no  sooner  had  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  master  appeared  before  the  astonished  and  dis- 
mayed eyes  of  the  students — who  expected  a  very  differ- 
ent apparition — than  they  let  go  the  cord,  and  the  future 
archbishop  lay  sprawling  on  the  ground.  "The  young 
rascals,"  said  the  archbishop,  "  had  sent  one  of  their  com- 
panions into  the  town  for  something  or  other,  and  that 
was  the  way  he  was  to  rejoin  them."  The  archbishop,  as 
primate,  was  the  officiating  clergyman  at  the  prince's  mar- 
riage, being  assisted  by  the  bishops  of  London,  Winches- 
ter, Chester,  and  Oxford,  the  latter  in  his  robes  as  Prelate 
of  the  Order  of  the  Garter. 

Sumner,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  was  a  very  old  man, 
nearer  eighty  than  seventy  ;  he  seemed  so  hale  and  active 
that  I  was  induced  to  ask  him  if  he  had  adopted  any 
special  regimen  as  regards  diet,  exercise,  etc.  "  Well," 
said  he,  "  I  have  eaten  of  whatever  good  things  were  put 
before  me,  and  I  have  drunk  a  bottle  of  port  wine  every 
day  since  I  was  a  boy.  The  only  precaution  I  have  taken 
has  been  in  the  quality  of  the  wine;  for  unless  it  was  old 
and  good,  I  would  have  none  of  it." 

The  Bishop  of  Chester  came  to  London  on  purpose  to 
sit  for  me.  I  only  troubled  him  twice,  and  he  sat  so  pa- 
tiently that  his  portrait  is  one  of  the  most  like  of  all.  He 
had  a  very  characteristic  face  and  a  very  long  neck.  The 
Bishop  of  Oxford  told  me  the  bishops  called  him  their 
"Neck-or-nothing  brother." 

"  A  certain  marquis,  now  dead,  had  the  character — 
rightly  or  wrongly  ascribed  to  him — of  being  parsimonious 
to  an  extent  often  verging  on  absolute  meanness.  In  con- 
versation with  the  Bishop  of  London,  the  miserly  disposi- 


250  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

tion  of  this  nobleman  was  discussed ;  when  the  bishop 
said:  "I  have  heard  these  stories,  and  must  believe  some 
of  them;  nor  do  I  think  them  irreconcilable  with  a  lavish 
generosity  in  directions  where  help  is  required  for  deserv- 
ing objects,  as  a  check  for  ten  thousand  pounds  for  '  The 
Curates'  Augmentation  Fund  ' — which  I  have  at  this  mo- 
ment in  my  pocket  signed  by  the  very  nobleman  in  ques- 
tion— proves." 

To  the  many  applications  made  by  me  to  the  various 
personages  who  were  present  at  the  marriage  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales  I  received  but  one  refusal  to  sit.  All  the  stalls 
in  St.  George's  Chapel  were  filled  by  Knights  of  the  Garter 
in  their  robes  ;  and  among  them  was  a  noble  duke  cele- 
brated for  being  the  possessor  of  a  very  broad-brimmed 
hat  and  a  very  ordinary — not  to  say  ugly — face.  My  first 
appeal  failed  in  eliciting  a  reply,  but  to  my  second  letter 
I  received  the  following  answer  : 

"  DEAR  SIR, — I  have  no  time  to  sit  for  a  picture.     If  my  form  must  ap- 
pear in  your  work,  allow  me  to  suggest  that,  in  respect  of  my  face,  you 
might  bury  it  in  my  hat,  in  the  manner  of  people  when  they  go  to  church. 
"  Your  obedient  servant,  ." 

Some  of  the  figures  in  the  distance  were  so  small  that  I 
refrained  from  troubling  the  originals,  finding  good  pho- 
tographs sufficient  guides.  Among  these  was  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli, whose  face  on  the  canvas  was  certainly  not  larger 
than  a  shilling;  and  I  told  Mrs.  Disraeli,  when  she  called 
to  see  the  picture,  that  I  could  not  think  of  troubling  her 
husband,  and  on  some  excuse  or  other  I  escaped  showing 
it  to  her,  as  I  knew  she  would  be  distressed  at  finding  the 
great  man  playing  so  small  a  part  in  it.  The  worship  of 
that  estimable  lady  for  her  husband  is  well  known,  and  I 
may  relate  here  an  instance  of  it. 

My  old  friend  John  Phillip,  R.A.,  was  commissioned 
by  the  speaker,  Denison,  to  paint  a  picture  of  a  portion 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  work  was  to  contain 
portraits  of  some  of  the  most  eminent  members  of  the 
Government  and  of  the  Opposition.  On  one  side  are 
Lord  Palmerston,  who  is  speaking,  Cornewall  Lewis,  Lord 
John  Ilussell,  Lord  Lytton,  etc.,  and  opposite  sit  Disraeli 


"THE  MARRIAGE  OF  TIJK  PRINCE  OF  WALES."    251 

and  those  of  his  inclining.  Phillip  told  me  that,  after  the 
tirst  sitting  from  Disraeli — the  colors  being  necessarily 
somewhat  crude — the  lady  and  gentleman  took  their  de- 
parture; but,  after  seeing  her  husband  into  the  carriage, 
Mrs.  Disraeli  returned  to  the  studio,  and,  walking  quickly 
up  to  the  painter,  said,  "  Remember  his  pallor  is  his  beau- 
ty!" and,  without  another  word,  rejoined  her  husband. 

Here  I  make  further  quotations  from  my  letters  to  my 
sister.  I  find  in  November,  1863, 1  write: 

"  I  must  confess  that,  if  there  be  any  shortcomings  in  the  picture,  I 
don't  think  I  can  fairly  attribute  them  to  the  royal  people,  for  nothing 
could  be  kinder  than  they  have  been ;  and  I  quite  believe  that  the  short 
sittings,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  are  unavoidable. 

"Princess  Louise  told  me  the  other  day  that  she  and  Princess  Helena 
were  at  the  Great  Exhibition,  and  Princess  Helena,  feeling  some  one  tug- 
ging at  her  dress,  turned  round,  and  heard  a  woman  exclaim, 'I've  touched 
her,  I've  touched  her!  Oh,  it's  a  noble  family !' 

"Now,  without  the  least  flunkey  feeling  (and  I  don't  think  anybody 
would  accuse  me  of  such  a  weakness),  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  more  sur- 
prised than  I  have  been  with  the  royal  children  ;  the  most  unaffected,  gen- 
ial, pleasant  creatures,  without  the  least  pride  of  place  about  them. 

"  The  queen  will  sit  again  in  a  few  days,  and  that  will  be  the  last  oppor- 
tunity I  shall  have  till  the  spring — perhaps  the  last,  as  I  have  been  very 
successful  with  her  majesty,  although  my  sittings  have  been  so  short.  .  . 
Scarcely  a  day  passes  without  some  one  who  is  staying  in  the  castle  com- 
ing into  my  workroom ;  the  other  day  Lord  Carlisle  and  some  interesting 
people,  among  whom  was  the  Duke  de  Xemours,  whose  face  I  shall  never 
forget — he  looked  history.  I  thought  I  could  find  traces  of  Henry  IV.,  the 
Guises,  the  Bourbons — a  kind  of  exemplar  of  the  French  royal  blood.  It 
was  most  curious — not  fanciful  on  my  part.  And  his  manners  had  u  sort 
of  old-world  dignity  and  gentle  formality  that  was  inexpressibly  striking; 
it  was  like  talking  with  the  dead;  and  if  he  had  been  dressed  in  the  high 
boots  and  armor  of  Henry  IV.  the  very  man  would  have  been  before  you. 
When  he  had  gone,  and  I  looked  round  at  the  stately  Rubcnses  in  their  high 
ruffs  and  peaked  beards,  I  could  scarcely  believe  I  had  not  been  talking 
to  one  of  them.  I  assure  you  I  am  not  exaggerating — it  was  roost  strik- 
ing ;  and  so  are  others  who  come,  only  they  waste  my  time. 

"  Ever  your  affectionate  brother." 

Another  anecdote  related  to  me  by  one  of  the  princesses 
— I  forget  which — is  worth  recording.  After  the  marriage 
of  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  with  the  Princess  Royal 
of  England  the  happy  pair  embarked  at  Gravesend  for 
their  future  home.  To  reach  their  vessel  they  had  to  pass 
through  a  dense  mass  of  people  by  means  of  a  long  passage, 


252  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

or  gangway,  closely  beset  on  both  sides  by  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  and  women.  As  the  royal  couple  walked 
slowly  along  the  prince  felt  his  arm  touched;  he  turned, 
and  was  thus  addressed  by  a  navvy:  "Now  mind  you  be- 
have well  to  her  when  you  gets  her  over  there;  if  you  don't, 
we'll  pretty  soon  fetch  her  back  again." 
In  another  letter,  of  a  later  date: 

"  LONDON,  December  20. 

"  MY  DEAREST  J , — I  confess  I  am  right  glad  to  find  myself  at  home 

again,  after  the  pains  and  troubles  of  Windsor;  not  that  I  have  anything 
to  complain  of,  as  I  said  before,  but  that  the  difficulties  have  been  so  great. 
.  .  .  When  I  tell  you  that,  in  less  than  seven  weeks,  I  have  finished  the 
queen  and  the  prince,  nearly  done  the  three  English  princesses,  advanced 
the  crown  princess  and  her  son  almost  to  completion,  quite  done  the  crown 
prince,  begun  General  Grey,  Lady  Mount-Edgecumbe,  the  lord  chamber- 
Iain,  and  some  others,  and  made  a  most  satisfactory  study  of  the  Princess 
of  Wales,  you  will  admit  I  have  made  the  most  of  my  time.  The  queen 
came  to  see  me  just  before  she  left,  and  all  the  princesses  came  to  say 
good-bye.  Little  Princess  Beatrice  was  most  affectionate.  She  shook 
hands  with  me  three  times.  She  showed  me  the  present  she  had  prepared 
for  Lady  Augusta  Bruce — who  is  to  marry  Dean  Stanley  almost  immedi- 
ately— a  little  ring  made  of  forget-me-nots  in  diamonds,  of  which  she  was 
very  proud.  I  believe  the  likeness  I  have  done  of  the  queen  is  satisfactory, 
only  too  faithful,  I  thought — not  in  the  least  flattered.  I  said  as  much  to 
Princess  Helena,  and  her  reply  was  very  characteristic.  I  said  I  thought 
the  public  would  scarcely  be  satisfied,  after  the  pretty-looking  things  they 
had  been  accustomed  to.  The  princess  said,  'The  public — well,  you  may 
say  to  the  public  that  mamma's  children  are  delighted  with  it,  and  beg  you 
never  to  touch  it  again ;  we  think  it  perfect.  .  .  .' 

"  Ever  your  affectionate  brother." 

I  think  it  was  at  Windsor  that  I  heard  a  story  of  the 
royal  children,  or,  rather,  of  one  of  them,  that  I  may  re- 
late, though  I  cannot  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it: 

"  Some  years  before  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of 

Wales  the  present  Lord  ,  who  suffers  from  a  lame 

foot,  was  invited  to  Osborne.  Previous  to  his  arrival  a 
discussion  took  place  between  the  queen  and  the  prince 
consort  as  to  the  advisability  of  drawing  the  children's 
attention  to  the  nobleman's  lameness,  and  at  the  same 
time  warning  them  to  take  no  notice  of  it,  or  whether  it 
would  be  better,  having  regard  to  the  thoughtlessness  of 
children,  to  say  nothing  at  all  about  it.  After  much  con- 


"TI1E    MABRIAGE    OF   TI1E   PBINCE    OF    WALES."      253 

sideration  the  latter  idea  was  adopted.     Lord came, 

played  with  the  young  royalties,  and  left  very  early  one 
morning.     When   the   children   came  to  breakfast  they 

looked  for  Lord ,  and  one  of  them  asked  for  him. 

The  queen  said, '  Lord has  gone.' 

"'There,  now!'  said  one  of  the  princes,  whimpering, 
'that  is  too  bad.  He  has  gone,  and  he  promised  to  show 
me  his  foot.' " 

Before  I  take  my  leave  of  Windsor  I  have  to  tell  how 
I  happened  to  see  part  of  the  body  of  Charles  I. 

One  day,  when  I  was  sketching  in  St.  George's  Chapel, 
an  elderly  man — a  verger,  I  think — came  to  me,  and  asked 
if  I  should  like  to  see  "  a  little  bit  of  Charles  I."  The 
man  seemed  to  be  in  his  right  mind ;  he  was  one  of  the 
officials  that  I  had  frequently  seen  in  the  chapel ;  well 
dressed,  a  gold  chain  with  a  locket  attached  to  it — a  watch, 
no  doubt,  at  the  end,  in  evidence  on  his  waistcoat. 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  a  bit  of  Charles 
I.,"  said  I.  "  How  could  I  see  such  a  thing?" 

The 'locket  was  opened,  and  a  small,  dark  object  shown 
me." 

"That,"  said  the  man,  is  a  portion  of  the  body  of 
Charles  I." 

"And  how  did  you  become  possessed  of  it?"  asked  I. 
"Well,  sir,  it  was  in  this  way:  When  George  IV.  was 
prince  regent  I  was  a  carpenter's  boy  doing  odd  jobs, 
with  my  master,  about  the  castle,  and  we  was  ordered 
into  the  vaults  just  below  where  you  are  standing.  There 
was  the  prince  and  some  gentlemen,  and  one  of  the  castle 
servants  with  a  light;  and  they  was  evidently  looking 
about  for  something,  and  they  were  some  time  before 
they  found  what  they  wanted.  At  last  one  of  the  gents 
— he  was  a  doctor,  I  think — says,  '  Here  it  is!'  pointing  to 
one  of  the  coffins.  He  took  the  light  and  held  it  close, 
and  you  could  read,  'King  Charles,  1048' — I  think  that 
was  the  date,  or  something  near  it.  Then  the  prince  says 
to  my  master,  'Open  the  coffin,  and  be  very  careful  how 
you  do  it;'  and  him  and  me  did  it,  and  we  raised  the  lid, 
and  there  was  a  startler,  I  assure  you!  You  know  them 
pictures  of  King  Charles  in  the  castle?  Well,  sir,  they 


254  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

are  good  likenesses,  I  can  tell  you ;  for  there  he  was — the 
beard  on  the  chin  and  the  mustaches,  just  as  he  is  drawn. 
One  eye  was  wide  open,  but  the  other  was  gone;  his  face 
was  just  like  life,  only  very  brown;  and  round  the  throat 
there  was  a  piece  of  black  ribbon.  'Now  take  out  the 
head,'  said  the  prince,  and  ray  master  took  hold  of  it,  but 
he  seemed  frightened,  for  his  hands  shook,  and,  just  as  the 
prince  said,  'Look!  the  eye  is  going'  (and  so  it  was,  for  it 
turned  to  dust  as  we  was  looking),  master's  hand  shook 
so  that  the  head  slipped  through  his  fingers  on  to  the 
ground ;  he  said  it  had  become  so  greasy  he  couldn't  hold 
it.  The  prince  was  angry,  and  blew  master  up,  and  told 
one  of  the  gentlemen  to  put  it  back  in  the  coffin — which 
was  done — and  then  they  all  went  away,  leaving  us  to 
close  up  the  coffin.  We  was  tidying  up,  when  master 
said,  'Why,  here  is  a  bit  of  him!'  and  he  picked  up  from 
the  floor,  where  the  head  had  fallen,  a  piece  of  flesh  from 
the  neck,  and  gave  it  to  me  for  a  keepsake.  So  I  kept  it 
ever  since;  and  you  may  take  your  oath  wherever  you  like 
that  you  have  seen  a  part  of  the  body  of  Charles  I." 

When  the  marriage  pictui'e  was  finished  I  was  honored 
by  a  visit  from  the  queen  at  my  house  in  Pembridge  Vil- 
las. Her  majesty  showed  me  the  kindness  she  displays  to 
all  artists;  and,  though  I  was  conscious  of  the  many  short- 
comings of  the  picture,  and  quite  aware  that  they  could  not 
escape  her  eyes,  she  found  little  or  no  fault,  and  left  me 
under  the  impression  that  I  had  succeeded  as  well  as  could 
be  expected,  considering  the  great  difficulties  of  the  task. 

The  picture  went  to  the  Exhibition  of  18G5,  and,  from 
the  nature  of  the  subject,  was  very  attractive.  After  try- 
ing the  policeman,  who  failed  to  keep  the  crowd  at  a  prop- 
er distance  from  the  picture,  an  iron  rail  was  again  found 
necessary,  and — after  a  fight — adopted. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  GREAT  ACTORS  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

IK  reading  Evelyn's  delightful  "Diary"!  had  been 
struck  by  a  description  of  a  scene  at  the  old  palace  at 
Whitehall — then  occupied  by  Charles  II.  and  his  court — 
where  debauchery  of  all  kinds,  and  gambling  in  particular, 
were  pretty  generally  practised.  Evelyn  describes  a  visit 
of  himself  and  two  friends  to  the  palace,  on  the  Sunday 
evening  preceding  the  death  of  the  king,  in  the  following 
words : 

"  I  can  never  forget  the  inexpressible  luxury  and  pro- 
faneness,  gaming,  and  all  dissoluteness,  and,  as  it  were, 
total  forgetfulness  of  God  (it  being  Sunday  evening)  which 
this  day  se'nnight  I  was  witness  of.  The  king  sitting  and 
toying  with  his  concubines — Cleveland,  Portsmouth,  and 
Mazarin;  a  French  boy  singing  love-songs  in  that  glorious 
gallery;  while  about  twenty  of  the  greater  courtiers  and 
other  dissolute  persons  were  at  basset  round  a  large  table 
— a  bank  of  at  least  two  thousand  pounds  in  gold  before 
them — upon  which  two  gentlemen  who  were  with  me  made 
reflections  with  astonishment.  Six  days  after  was  all  in 
the  dust!" 

This  was  a  splendid  subject  for  a  picture;  but  I  should 
have  preferred  to  have  carried  out  my  agreement  with  Mr. 
Gambart  for  the  "Streets  of  London,"  and  much  regret 
now  that  I  did  not  do  so.  I  fancied  that  gentleman  had 
grown  cool  on  the  subject  of  the  "Streets;"  and  when  I 
showed  him  the  sketch  for  "Charles  II. 's  Last  Sunday," 
he  expressed  himself  so  warmly  in  favor  of  it  in  preference 
to  the  "Streets"  that  I  accepted  a  commission  from  him 
for  three  thousand  guineas,  and  at  the  same  time  consented 
to  cancel  our  agreement  for  the  more  extensive  and  ex- 
pensive subject  of  the  "  London  Streets." 


256  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Bad  times  have  come  upon  us,  and  those  pictures  are, 
and  ever  will  be,  in  the  air — a  matter  of  everlasting  regret 
to  me,  from  my  conviction  that  my  reputation  will  rest 
on  the  pictures  I  have  painted  from  the  life  ahout  me. ; 

Before  the  picture  of  Charles  had  advanced  far  it 
changed  hands,  and  became  the  property  of  Mr.  Matthews, 
with  whom  it  still  remains,  surrounded  by  most  admirable 
specimens  of  the  best  artists  of  the  day.  It  was  during 
the  progress  of  this  picture  that  I  received  a  very  gratify- 
ing acknowledgment  of  supposed  merit  in  the  shape  of  the 
Belgian  Order  of  Leopold,  conferred  on  me  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  exhibition  in  Brussels  of  the  picture  of  "  Rams- 
gate  Sands,"  kindly  lent  by  the  queen.  I  had  several 
English  rivals,  who  were  naturally  sore  at  being  passed 
over  in  my  favor;  one  of  them  being  in  excellent  odor 
with  the  gentleman  who  did  the  art  criticism  in  the  Athe- 
nceum,  and  who,  in  noticing  the  exhibition  at  Brussels,  was 
so  kind  as  to  announce  that  the  decoration  of  the  Order  of 
Leopold  was  given  to  my  picture,  not  because  of  its  merits, 
but  because  it  happened  to  belong  to  the  queen;  whereas, 
if  merit  had  been  the  guide,  the  honor  must  have  fallen 
on  other  shoulders.  On  reading  this  I  thought  it  well  to 
ascertain  if  these  pleasant  remarks  had  any  foundation  in 
truth,  or  whether,  as  I  felt  pretty  certain,  they  were  the 
outcome  of  the  disappointment  of  the  critic  and  his  friend. 
I  accordingly  wrote  to  the  Belgian  official  responsible  in 
the  matter,  telling  him  that  if  what  the  Athenaeum  stated 
was  the  truth  I  should  return  the  order.  Here  is  his  reply: 

"  BRUXEI.LES,  le  7e  Novembre,  1866. 

"  MONSIEUR, — M.  le  Ministre  de  1'Interieur  me  charge  d'avoir  1'honneur 
de  repondre  a  la  lettre  que  vous  lui  ave/  fait  parvenir  le  5  de  ce  mois. 

"  C'est  a  la  suite  d'une  proposition  emanant  du  Jury  des  recompenses  de 
1'Exposition  gcn6rale  des  Beaux-Arts  de  1866,  qu'une  distinction  honori- 
fique  vous  a  etc  conferee  par  le  Gouvernement  du  Roi. 

"  Je  vous  prie  de  croire,  Monsieur,  que  dans  1'espece,  la  consideration  du 
merite  des  oeuvres  envoyees  a  nos  expositions  est  la  seule  raison  detcr- 
minante  tant  des  propositions  des  Jury's,  que  des  decisions  que  le  Gouverne- 
ment prend  ensuite. 

"  Pour  ce  qui  vous  concerne  personnellement,  je  me  plais  a  ajouter  que 
le  succes  public  a  confirm6  pleinement  la  sanction  officielle  qui  a  6te  ac- 
cordee  a  votre  talent. 


THE   GREAT  ACTORS   OF   MY   YOUTH.  257 

"  Je  me  fa  is  done  un  devoir  de  joindrc  mes  felicitations  &  celles  qui  vous 
ont  dejA  et6  adressees  par  M.  le  Ministre  de  1'Interieur,  et  je  saisis  cctte 
occasion  pour  vous  offrir  1'assurance  de  mes  sentiments  lea  plus  distinguee. 
"  L'Inspecteur  des  Beauxc-Art«, 

"AD.    TIN   SOCST   DK   BORKEXFELDT. 

"A  Monsieur  W.  P.  Frith, 

"  Artiste  peintrc  &  Londrcs." 

On  receiving  this  expected  and  satisfactory  confirmation 
of  my  opinion  of  the  Athenceum  critic,  I  wrote  to  the 
Times  complaining  of  his  conduct,  and  placing  it  in  such 
a  light  as  I  should  have  thought  would  have  produced  a 
retractation  and  an  apology.  But  no,  the  Athenaeum  main- 
tained silence  under  proofs  of  a  charge  that  would  have 
been  thought  disgraceful  by  any  respectable  writer. 

To  return  to  Charles  I.,  after  much  searching  I  found  a 
man  curiously  like  the  king.  He  seemed  in  feeble  health, 
but  without  any  sign  of  fatal  illness  upon  him;  but,  strange 
to  say,  he  sat  to  me  for  the  last  time  one  Sunday,  and  be- 
fore "that  day  se'nnight  all  was  in  the  dust"  with  him  as 
with  his  royal  prototype.  Yet  another  and  a  sadder  death 
I  have  to  record,  that  of  my  old  and  dear  friend  John  Phil- 
lip, which  began  in  my  studio  in  front  of  my  picture  of 
Charles,  which  he  had  come  to  criticise.  He  had  been 
long  ailing,  but  on  the  day  of  his  visit  to  me  he  seemed  in 
unusual  health  and  spirits.  He  had  just  told  me  the  story 
of  Disraeli  and  his  "  pallor"  (related  in  the  previous  chap- 
ter), when  he  suddenly  rubbed  his  hands  furiously,  and 
exclaimed: 

"  What  is  this  ?— what  can  be  the  matter  ?"  He  then 
staggered  and  fell  into  a  chair,  and  said,  "  I  hope  to  God 
this  is  not  paralysis  !" 

"Nonsense!"  said  I;  "don't  frighten  yourself — 'tis  but 
a  bad  attack  of  pins  and  needles,"  as  he  continued  rubbing 
his  hands. 

But  in  an  instant  his  face  changed,  was  drawn  terribly 
on  one  side,  and  his  utterance  became  thick  and  unintel- 
ligible like  that  of  a  drunken  man.  I  sent  for  a  doctor,  to 
whom,  when  he  appeared,  Phillip  said: 

"This  is  very  strange — what  is  the  matter  with  me?" 

The  doctor  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then  finding, 
on  his  direction  to  the  poor  fellow  to  move  his  left  leg, 


258  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

that  he  had  lost  all  power  over  it,  he  shook  his  head,  and 
told  me  to  send  for  a  conveyance  and  get  the  dying  painter 
home  as  soon  as  possible.  My  dear  old  friend  lingered  for 
ten  days,  and  then  there  died  one  of  the  greatest  painters 
this  country  has  produced,  and  one  of  the  noblest  and 
truest-hearted  of  men.  We  had  been  boys  together.  I 
regretted  him,  and  regret  him  still;  and  right  glad  I  am 
to  find  that  his  son  Colin  is  taking  a  very  high  position  as 
a  water-color  painter,  as  his  admirable  works — to  say  noth- 
ing of  his  admission  into  the  Old  Society  of  Water-Color 
Painters — sufficiently  prove. 

It  was  the  custom,  till  well  into  the  present  century  for 
noblemen  to  wear  their  stars  on  all  occasions,  and  I  have 
heard  that  certain  ribald  remarks  made  by  the  many- 
headed  on  the  appearance  of  these  decorated  nobles  in  the 
streets  was  the  cause  of  the  discontinuance  of  a  practice 
that  fell  into  desuetude  soon  after  the  time  when  clergy- 
men ceased  to  walk  about  it  in  their  gowns.  Knowing 
this,  I  thought  I  might  venture  to  decorate  the  king,  in 
my  picture,  with  the  Order  of  the  Garter.  But  here  came 
a  difficulty,  for  I  was  told  that  the  star  wras  differently 
formed  to  the  one  now  worn.  Good-fortune  attended  my 
inquiries,  for  I  found  that  the  actual  "  George  "  that  was 
given  by  Charles  I.  to  Bishop  Juxon  on  the  scaffold — with 
the  word  "Remember" — was  in  existence,  and  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  who  had  inherited  it 
from  his  father,  to  whom  it  had  been  presented  by 
George  IV.  Cardinal  York,  the  last  of  the  Stuarts,  had 
bequeathed  the  order  to  the  king. 

I  applied  to  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  who  kindly  lent 
me  the  jewel,  and  my  "  Charles  "  now  wears  the  order  that 
very  possibly  decorated  the  real  man  on  the  occasion  rep- 
resented in  the  picture;  for  it  has  been  conjectured, 
plausibly  I  think,  that  the  bishop  was  to  "  remember  "  to 
give  the  order  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  to  whom  it  may 
have  been  consigned,  in  spite  of  Cromwell  and  his  myr- 
midons. 

My  picture  represents  nearly  a  year's  incessant  work, 
and  my  diary  shows  constant  evidence  of  a  settled  convic- 
tion of  its  success.  It  was  my  custom,  the  first  day  of  the 


THE  GREAT  ACTORS  OF  MY  YOUTH.        259 

year,  to  express  my  opinion  of  my  work  and  my  anticipa- 
tion of  the  result  of  it,  so  as  to  be  able  to  test  the  truth 
or  falseness  of  my  judgment.  Of  course,  I  was  often  de- 
ceived, but  the  practice  is  one  I  would  recommend  to  the 
young  painter,  as  it  may  prove  both  a  safeguard  against 
unwarranted  enthusiasm  and  an  encouragement  in  mo- 
ments of  depression.  As  an  example  I  quote  from  the 
diary  of  1867,  the  year  of  the  completion  and  exhibition 
of  "  Charles  II.": 

"I  find  in  my  last  diary  that  the  year  '66  began  big 
with  the  conviction  that  I  was  about  another,  and  perhaps 
a  greater,  success.  Time  confirms  that  idea,  and  this  year 
finds  me  slowly,  but  successfully,  completing  a  picture 
which  has  been  more  than  a  common  delight  to  me.  It 
is  not  possible  to  exaggerate  (to  convey  a  notion,  even,  to 
the  uninitiated)  the  delight  that  these  things  are  if  you 
can  persuade  yourself  that  you  are  in  the  right  way.  I 
think  I  am  in  that  direction — hence  my  pleasure;  and  I 
can't  believe  myself  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  feel  in  this 
way  without  good  foundation  for  my  feelings.  We  shall 
see.  Once  more  work  on — steadily,  faithfully,  trustingly, 
hopefully  to  the  end." 

I  recommend  the  last  paragraph  to  the  attention  of  the 
student.  When  the  picture  went  to  the  exhibition  I  find 
I  wrote : 

"Picture  left,  and  joy  go  with  it.  Of  course,  alas!  it 
is  inferior  to  the  old  masters  in  every  quality.  It  is  a 
good  thing  as  times  go.  We  shall  see.  I  am  very  likely 
wrong." 

I  have  spoken  in  a  previous  page  of  the  terrible  sensa- 
tion that  thrills  the  wretched  painter  on  the  first  sight  of 
a  picture  on  the  walls  of  the  Academy.  Here  is  a  true 
and  faithful  account  of  mine  on  the  occasion  of  "Charles 
II. 's"  appearance  in  Trafalgar  Square: 

"First  sight  of  'Charles'  in  the  exhibition,  and  never 
shall  I  forget  it.  The  picture  looked  brown  and  dingy, 
scarcely  recognizable,  all  the  bright  colors  gone.  I 
wretched  in  the  extreme;  couldn't  sleep;  still  all  seemed 
pleased  with  it." 

The  after-success  of  the  picture  may  show  the  young 


260  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

painter  how  little  faith  he  may  place  upon  his  first  impres- 
sions of  his  work  in  a  modern  exhibition — a  success,  in- 
deed, that  resulted  in  the  necessity  of  placing  a  rail  round 
the  picture.  One  more  quotation  from  the  inevitable 
diary,  and  I  have  done  with  it  and  the  "  Charles"  picture. 

" Monday,  June  4,  '67. — To  R.A.,  where  I  find  a  rail 
round  the  '  Charles,'  to  my  great  surprise  and  pleasure. 
This  is  the  third  rail  round  my  work  in  the  exhibition — 
first  the  *  Derby  Day,'  then  the  'Roval  Marriage,'  and  now 
'The  Last  Sunday  of  Charles  II.'— Eureka !" 

With  the  great  actors  of  my  youth  I  had  no  personal 
acquaintance;  but  with  those  who  have  appeared  within 
the  last  thirty  years  I  have  been  on  more  or  less  intimate 
terms.  Fechter  was  a  frequent  guest  at  Pembridge  Villas. 
He  had  a  taste  for  sculpture,  and  some  proficiency  in  the 
practice  of  it.  John  Parry  would  have  been  as  great  as  a 
painter  as  he  was  in  his  own  inimitable  performances,  if 
he  had  devoted  himself  to  the  practice  of  painting  with 
the  assiduity  that  he  bestowed  on  his  own  art.  Some  of 
those  who  may  read  these  lines  may  remember  "  Mr.  Rose- 
leaf's  Evening  Party  " — that  extraordinary  scene  in  which 
the  great  mimic  made  his  audience  see  a  whole  roomful  of 
people  by  simulation,  and  little  tricks  of  expression  and 
movement  impossible  to  describe  or  to  be  repeated  by 
another.  The  whole  of  the  scene  was  constructed  in  my 
studio,  and  performed  for  the  first  time  in  the  drawing- 
room.  With  Compton,  the  best  actor  of  the  minor  Shake- 
spearian characters,  I  was  well  acquainted.  The  man  I 
knew  best,  and  with  whom  I  had  most  sympathy,  was  the 
American  actor,  Jefferson,  whose  performance  of  "Rip 
Van  Winkle  "  can  never  be  forgotten.  Out  of  his  art,  he 
was  a  highly-cultivated  man.  He,  too,  would  have  been  a 
good  painter  if  he  had  gone  the  right  way  of  becoming 
one.  As  it  was  (and  perhaps  as  it  is,  for  the  admirable 
artist  is  still  living  and  acting  in  America),  his  practice  of 
painting  a  picture  every  morning  is  not  conducive  to  the 
long-sustained  effort  necessary  for  the  production  of  works 
of  art.  Jefferson  shrank  from  the  study  of  details.  His 
ideas  were  poetic;  but  his  pictures  were  painted  without 
reference  to  nature,  and  consequently  they  were  but 


T11E    GREAT   ACTOBS    OF   MY    YOUTII.  261 

dreams — beautiful  often,  but  unreal  and  unsubstantial  as 
dreams. 

I  think  it  was  about  the  year  1866  that  Sothern,  with 
"Lord  Dundreary,"  burst  upon  the  town  and  took  it  by 
storm.  The  popularity  of  the  actor  was  very  great.  I 
sought  his  acquaintance  and  painted  his  portrait,  which  is 
now,  I  believe,  in  New  York.  Sothern  was  a  very  amus- 
ing companion,  but  given  to  practical  joking  to  an  extent 
that  approached  mania.  He  was  also  a  pretended  believer 
in  spirit-rapping,  and  as  great  a  performer  at  table-rap- 
ping as  he  was  on  the  stage  ;  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I 
assisted  him  in  some  of  his  deceptions,  and  my  friend 
Henry  Tawell  was  as  wicked  as  ourselves  in  that  particu- 
lar, as  what  I  am  going  to  relate  will  prove. 

Sothern  gave  a  great  dinner,  at  which  two  young  lords, 
whose  names  I  suppress,  were  guests,  with  many  others, 
all  more  or  less  believers.  The  drawing-room  at  Sothern's 
was  a  long  room — it  appeared  to  be  two  rooms  flung  into 
one — at  one  end  of  which,  after  dinner,  Tawell  was  thrown 
by  the  actor  into  a  mesmeric  trance,  in  which  he  gave  ac- 
curate descriptions  of  the  interior  of  some  of  the  guests' 
houses,  to  their  utter  amazement.  I  was  far  from  the  two 
criminals — at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  close  to  the 
two  lords,  who  were  looking  and  listening  with  faces  that 
spoke  faith  and  wonder. 

"This  must  be  some  trick,"  said  I.  "The  man  cannot 
possibly  describe  what  he  has  never  seen." 

"  It  is  very  wonderful,"  said  Lord  H . 

"  Anyway,  let  us  test  him.  If  he  can  describe  my  stu- 
dio, and  tell  me  the  name  of  the  man  who  sat  for  me  yes- 
terday (one  of  our  models),  I  will  believe  in  him." 

"  Ah,  if  he  can  do  that  now,  it  will  be  extraordinary  in- 
deed," said  Lord  II . 

"On  second  thoughts,"  I  said,  "I  shouldn't  think  much 
of  his  description  of  the  room,  because  all  artists'  studios 
arc  much  alike  ;  but  if  he  names  the  model  I  will  believe." 

"  Well,  try  him,"  said  my  lord. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  you  put  it  to  him." 

At  the  moment  Tawell  was  lying  back  in  an  exhausted 
condition,  Sothern  standing  by  him. 


262  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    BEMINISCENCES. 

Said  Lord  H ,  "  Can  the  gentleman  describe  Mr. 

Frith's  studio,  and  name  the  man  who  sat  for  him  yester- 
day?" 

Sothern  made  several  passes,  and  they  produced  a  slow, 
but  accurate,  description  of  the  painting-room. 

"  Is  that  right  ?"  said  my  lord. 

"  Yes,"  said  I ;  "  but  he  can't  name  the  model.  It  is 

impossible.  The  name  is  "  (in  a  whisper  to  Lord  H ) 

"  Barrel." 

"  Frith  says  the  room  is  right,  but  how  about  the  model 
— can  he  tell  us  the  name  ?" 

Tawell  was  very  exhausted.  Sothern  tried  passes,  some- 
times slowly,  sometimes  rapidly,  but  the  medium  gave  no 
sound.  At  last  the  operator  said, 

"  I  fear  my  friend  is  too  exhausted." 

"  There,"  said  I, "  I  told  you  the  whole  thing  is  hum- 
bug." 

"Wait,"  we  heard  Sothern  say,  as  he  leaned  his  ear 
close  to  Tawell.  "Can  you  name  the  man  who  sat  to 
Frith  yesterday?" 

Tawell  muttered  something  we  could  not  hear.  Sothern, 
with  his  ear  still  closer  to  Tawell,  said, 

"  What  ?     Can't  you  speak  a  little  louder  ?" 

Some  more  passes  and  the  mesmerized  man  seemed  to 
be  revived  into  sudden  strength  again,  and  in  a  clear  voice 
said,  "  Barrel." 

I  think  I  acted  my  astonishment  very  well,  and  I  am 
quite  sure  the  young  lords  turned  as  white  as  ghosts  :  the 
idea  that  the  whole  thing  was  prearranged  before  dinner 
never  entered  their  minds.  I  believe  both  those  gentle- 
men are  still  living,  and  if  by  chance  they  should  read 
these  lines  they  will  know  how  it  was  that  Tawell  knew 
"  who  sat  for  Frith  yesterday." 

A  Mrs.  Marshall  was  a  celebrated  medium.  She  was 
generally  accompanied  by  a  young  woman  she  called  her 
niece  when  she  gave — or,  rather,  sold — her  services  at  dif- 
ferent houses.  At  one  of  her  performances  I  was  present, 
and  some  strange  tricks  were  played.  This  time  I  was 
not  a  confederate,  but  a  pretended  believer,  and  one  of  a 
largo  party  sitting  round  a  table  at  a  friend's  house.  There 


TUB  GREAT  ACTORS  OF  MY  YOUTH.        263 

were  some  ladies  who  wore  large  crinolines  ;  and  when  the 
younger  Marshall  put  a  candle  under  the  table  to  enable 
the  spirit  to  sec  to  put  some  coins  into  a  tumbler  which 
was  placed  there  for  the  purpose,  after  hearing  one  or  two 
pieces  of  money  dropped  into  the  glass,  I,  without  really 
wishing  to  discover  anything  of  the  trick,  looked  beneath 
the  table  to  see  if  the  candle  was  at  a  safe  distance  from 
the  crinolines,  when  I  saw  the  younger  cheat  moving  the 
coins  with  her  feet  towards  the  tumbler.  She  had  put  off 
her  slippers,  and  her  naked  toes  were  apparent  as  she  used 
them  like  fingers,  and  with  extraordinary  cleverness,  for 
among  the  coins  was  a  fourpenny-piecc — a  difficult  thing 
to  move  about  with  one's  toes. 

Mrs.  Marshall  gave  seances  at  her  own  house  to  all  and 
sundry  who  were  willing  to  pay  five  shillings  for  the 
amusement,  and  Sothern,  hearing  of  the  elderly  medium, 
went  with  a  friend — Toole,  I  think  it  was — paid  his  five 
shillings,  and  gravely  took  his  place  at  the  table.  He  be- 
came greatly  awe-stricken  at  the  various  manifestations. 
His  excitement  and  terror  became  very  serious,  and  at  last 
culminated  in  a  convulsive  fit.  He  foamed  at  the  mouth 
(by  the  help  of  a  piece  of  soap),  rolled  on  the  ground,  and 
bit  the  old  woman  in  the  leg. 

A  more  serious  and  less  defensible  practical  joke  was 
played  by  Sothern  in  the  following  manner.  lie  was  act- 
ing in  a  piece — the  name  of  which  he  mentioned  when  he 
told  me  the  story,  but  I  forget  it — when  he  noticed  a  lady 
and  gentleman  sitting  alone  in  the  stage-box.  The  lady 
was  handsome.  The  gentleman,  somewhat  her  senior,  sel- 
dom spoke  to  his  companion  ;  indeed,  they  appeared  an 
ill-assorted  couple.  Sothern's  familiar  demon  was  in  full 
power,  and  when  in  the  course  of  the  play  he  had  to  quit 
the  stage  for  a  time,  he  wrote  a  note  and  sent  it  to  the 
lady,  containing,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  these  words: 

"  Beloved  one  !  Now  and  ever  beloved  !  Can  it  be 
true  that  you  are  married  ?  Is  the  man  with  you  your 
husband?  Little  dreamed  I  when  I  came  to  the  theatre 
that  I  should  see  one  so  inexpressibly  dear  to  me  in  the 
possession  of  another.  Can  he  know — can  you  have  for- 
gotten all  that  has  passed  between  us  ?  I  dare  not  sigu 


264  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

this  with  my  name.  You  know  it,  and  I  implore  you  to 
let  me  see  you  once  more,  and  hear  from  your  own  lips 
that  you  are  lost  to  me  forever.  Write  to  the  club,  as 
usual." 

Sothern  told  me  he  returned  to  the  stage  and  continued 
his  part,  with  an  eye  on  the  lady  just  as  she  received  his 
note.  She  read  it,  or  the  greater  part  of  it,  and  hastily 
thrust  it  into  her  pocket.  Her  saturnine  companion  in- 
sisted on  seeing  it.  The  lady  hesitated,  then  flatly  re- 
fused. The  gentleman  persisted  and  the  note  was  produced. 

"I  assure  you,"  said  Sothern,  "the  man's  expression 
would  have  been  a  study  for  you.  Talk  of  looking  dag- 
gers— he  looked  broadswords.  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  couldn't 
hear  what  he  said,  but  I  saw  what  he  did  ;  he  jumped  up 
and  rushed  out  of  the  box,  taking  the  lady  with  him,  and 
I  saw  no  more  of  'em." 

The  above  is  a  pretty  clear  proof  that  when  the  love  of 
practical  joking  takes  possession  of  a  man  he  may  indulge 
it  in  a  manner  that  is  unjustifiable.  Another  instance  ad- 
mits of  defence.  The  actor  was  very  fond  of  marmalade, 
and  had  ordered  rather  a  large  quantity  at  a  shop.  When 
the  marmalade  was  delivered  it  was  found  to  be  faulty  in 
many  respects,  and  Sothern  went  to  the  shop  and  de- 
manded back  the  money  he  had  paid  for  it.  The  shop- 
keeper refused,  upon  which  Sothern  put  an  advertisement 
in  two  newspapers,  announcing  that  orange-peel  in  any 
quantity  that  may  be  found  at  music-halls,  theatres,  or  at 
other  places  of  private  or  public  resort  where  oranges  are 
a  favorite  fruit,  will  be  purchased  at  the  best  price  by  So- 
and-So,  at  their  well-known  establishment  at  Blank  Place. 

It  will  surprise  no  one  that  practical  joking,  however 
agreeable  to  the  performer,  is  so  little  satisfactory  to  the 
victims  of  it  that  an  angry  feeling  is  set  up,  costing  the 
joker  many  a  friend.  A  notable  example  of  this  occurred 
at  Sothern's  table  on  an  occasion  when,  as  he  said,  "he 
had  got  them,  all  into  a  state  of  mind  to  believe  any- 
thing." The  spirits  were  present  and  very  demonstrative, 
table-movements  and  spectral  effects  were  plentiful,  when 
the  company  were  surprised  by  an  announcement  that 
the  spirit  of  Sheridan  was  present,  and  he  would  like  a 


TOE    GREAT    ACTOES    OF    MY    YOUTH.  265 

glass  of  wine !  This  was  too  much  for  Sothern,  who  ex- 
claimed, 

"Some  one  is  playing  a  trick ;  we  all  know  Sheridan's 
habits,  but  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  he  retains  his  pro- 
pensities in  a  disembodied  condition.  I  must  really  ask 
that  no  one  will  attempt  to  trifle  in  this  way." 

The  spirits  were  again  appealed  to,  and  the  ghost  of 
Sheridan  rapped  loudly  and  angrily,  again  demanding  a 
glass  of  wine. 

"  Well,"  said  Sothern,  "  this  is  very  strange,"  filling  a 
glass  full  of  champagne.  "  Now,  to  see  that  no  trick  is 
played,  do  you,"  speaking  to  Tawell,  who  sat  next  to  him, 
"  place  yourself  beneath  the  table,  and  tell  the  company 
what  takes  place." 

Tawell  slipped  under  the  table,  Sothern  held  the  wine 
below,  and  Tawell  drank  it. 

The  effect  on  the  company  when  the  empty  glass  ap- 
peared, and  Ta well's  frightened  face  with  it,  was  electric. 
A  chorus  of  grateful  raps  from  Sheridan  closed  that  scene, 
leaving  the  audience  in  what  Sothern  called  "  exactly  the 
right  condition  for  further  operations." 

To  prove  how  a  friend  may  be  hurt  and  lost  I  may  add 
that  among  the  guests  was  an  old  friend  of  Sothern's — 
— heretofore  a  sceptic,  but  on  this  occasion  an  enthusiastic 
believer — who  had  recently  lost  his  mother.  The  spirit 
of  the  departed  was  present,  and  the  raps  announced  that 
if  her  son  would  put  his  hand  beneath  the  table  the  hand 
of  the  dead  would  touch  it.  Near  the  chair  of  the  actor 
was  some  iced  water ;  his  naked  toes  were  plunged  into 
it  and  applied  to  the  believer's  hand  for  a  moment,  but 
long  enough  to  produce  a  startling  effect.  Then  the  vic- 
tim turned  pale,  the  tears  started  to  his  eyes,  and  he  fell 
back  sobbing  in  his  chair.  The  trick  was  discovered  some 
time  afterwards,  and  the  spiritualist  lost  his  friend — and 
no  wonder ! 

Sothern  told  me  a  curious  circumstance  in  connection 
with  the  play  of  "  The  American  Cousin,"  originally  pro- 
duced in  New  York,  the  principal  part  being  filled  by  Jef- 
ferson, whose  admirable  acting  made  it,  or  was  intended 
to  have  made  it,  the  chief  part  of  the  play.  Sothern — 
12 


260  MY  .AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

then  acting  in  the  name  of  Stewart — was  cast  for  the  in- 
significant part  of  Lord  Dundreary,  much  to  his  disgust. 
He  had  other  reasons  for  dislike  to  the  management,  and 
he  now  determined  to  revenge  himself  by  making  the 
foolish  lord  supremely  ridiculous.  Among  the  properties 
he  discovered  a  preposterous  dressing-gown.  He  practised 
a  way  of  walking,  or,  rather,  skipping  about,  unlike  the 
locomotion  of  any  creature  out  of  Bedlam.  He  invented 
a  drawl  equally  unnatural,  and,  armed  with  these  weapons, 
he  hoped  to  damn  the  piece.  To  his  utter  astonishment, 
the  means  he  had  adopted  to  ruin  the  play  insured  its  suc- 
cess, and  from  that  moment  Lord  Dundreary  became  its 
most  attractive  character.  I  saw  the  play  several  times 
in  London,  and  on  each  occasion  the  actor  varied  the  part 
by  the  introduction  of  allusions,  in  a  Dundreary  spirit,  to 
events  of  the  moment,  or  in  what  is  called  "  gagging,"  to 
any  extent.  If  he  found  his  gag  tell  upon  the  audience 
he  repeated  it ;  if  not  he  changed  it  for  another.  On  one 
occasion  he  told  me  that,  discovering  the  young  lady  in 
the  play  immersed  in  a  book,  and  apparently  surprised  by 
its  contents,  he  inquired  in  Dundreary  tones  what  she  was 
reading.  The  young  lady  replied  that  the  book  was  one  of 
Chinese  travels,  and  the  writer  asserted  that  criminals  con- 
demned to  death  in  China  could,  by  a  money-payment,  pro- 
cure substitutes  who  underwent  the  punishment  for  them. 

"  Can  this  be  true  ?"  asked  the  young  lady. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Dundreary.  "  My  brother  Sam  is 
intimately  acquainted  with  some  of  the  Chinese  who  get 
their  living  by  it." 

This,  Sothern  told  me,  he  thought  would  have  "  told  " 
with  the  audience — and  I  confess  I  should  have  thought 
so  too  ;  but  except  an  old  gentleman  in  the  stalls,  who 
let  off  a  laugh  like  a  loud  bark,  "  there  was  not  a  smile 
among  them,"  and  the  Chinese  joke  was  never  repeated. 

I  hesitate  in  any  allusion  to  living  people,  actors  or 
others.  I  think  I  may  boast  that  I  have  an  acquaintance, 
more  or  less  intimate,  with  most  of  the  best  actors  of-  the 
present  day,  and  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  I 
was  one  of  the  first  to  foretell  the  great  fame  that  has 
been  so  deservedly  won  by  my  friend  Irving ;  and,  cu- 


THE  GREAT  ACTORS  OF  MY  YOUTH.         267 

riously  enough,  I  may  say  the  same  as  regards  Miss  Ellen 
Terry,  in  whose  performance — almost  en  amateur — many 
years  ago,  I  discovered,  or  thought  I  did,  germs  of  the 
genius  since  so  apparent  to  all  the  world.  But  I  feel  it 
is  time  to  return  to  a  less  congenial  subject,  namely,  my- 
self and  my  own  doings,  and  I  find  that  I  am  again  "  in 
trouble  "  in  respect  of  subject. 

The  remainder  of  the  year  1867  was  taken  up  by  the 
execution  of  small  matters,  with  the  exception  of  one  pict- 
ure from  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer ;"  the  scene  chosen 
being  that  in  which  Mrs.  Hardcastle  desires  her  cub  of  a 
son  to  stand  back  to  back  with  Miss  Neville  to  see  which 
is  the  taller,  a  position  of  which  Tony  takes  advantage 
to  bestow  a  blow  upon  the  lady's  head  with  his  own  thick 
skull,  to  her  discomfiture  and  his  mother's  disgust.  The 
picture  contains  four  figures,  the  third  being  Mr.  Hastings, 
the  lover  of  Miss  Neville.  The  subject  is  a  good  one  of 
its  class,  but  far  wide  of  what  I  desired  to  illustrate.  The 
picture  was  pretty  successful,  and  is  now  in  the  collection 
of  Mr.  Matthews.  This,  with  a  portrait  and  a  small  sub- 
ject from  Sterne,  occupied  me  till,  on  reading,  or,  rather, 
rereading,  Boswcll's  "  Johnson,"  I  found  a  scene  that 
might  be  sufficiently  interesting  to  repay  its  reproduc- 
tion, containing,  as  it  does,  so  many  historical  and  emi- 
nent characters.  The  locality  is  Boswell's  lodgings  in 
Bond  Street,  and  the  persons  present  are  Boswell,  John- 
son, Garrick,  Murphy,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Goldsmith, 
and  others.  The  guests  are  assembled  before  dinner,  wait- 
ing for  one  who  is,  d  la  Landscer,  belated.  Boswell  asks, 
"  Ought  six  people  to  be  kept  waiting  for  one?"  "  Why, 
yes,"  replies  Johnson,  "if  the  one  will  suffer  more  by 
your  sitting  down  than  the  six  will  do  by  waiting." 

In  the  interval  of  waiting,  Garrick  is  described  as  hold- 
ing the  lapels  of  Johnson's  coat,  the  sage  looking  down 
upon  him  with  tender  interest.  As  there  was  nearly  the 
difference  of  a  foot  in  the  height  of  the  two  men,  John- 
son must  have  regarded  the  actor  from  a  physical  as  well 
as  a  moral  elevation  sufficiently  striking,  and  though  I 
took  especial  pains  to  ascertain  the  precise  height  of  the 
two  figures,  and  placed  them  on  the  canvas  in  their  true 


268  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    EEMINISCENCES. 

relation  to  each  other,  I  was  told  by  a  critic  who  had,  most 
probably,  never  given  two  thoughts  to  the  matter,  that 
"  Johnson  was  too  tall."  Boswell  sat  with  watch  in  hand, 
while  Goldsmith  posed  before  the  mirror  in  all  the  splen- 
dor of  the  celebrated  plum-colored  coat.  Now  came  the 
dreadful  model  grievance — the  real  people  were  gone,  and 
the  substitutes  difficult,  in  some  cases  impossible,  to  ob- 
tain. Excellent  authorities  in  the  way  of  busts  and  por- 
traits were  plentiful,  but  to  find  any  one  with  the  least 
resemblance  to  Garrick  or  Johnson  was  a  puzzle  indeed. 
Nollekens'  portrait-bust  of  Johnson  was  of  great  service  ; 
it  is  full  of  character,  and  evidently  a  striking  likeness, 
but  much  damaged  by  a  flowing  head  of  hair — an  orna- 
ment impossible  to  Johnson  or  anybody  else  who  habitu- 
ally wore  a  wig.  Johnson  remonstrated  with  the  sculp- 
tor, and  insisted  that  not  only  should  the  wig  have  been 
represented,  but  the  coat  and  neckcloth  also,  instead  of 
the  flowing  locks  and  a  sort  of  towel  or  other  drapery 
encircling  the  neck,  according  to  the  classic  taste  of  the 
day.  I  think  the  Doctor  was  right,  but  Nollekens  did 
not,  and  positively  refused  to  make  the  change,  for  sev- 
eral reasons;  one  being  that  "  he  had  paid  a  man  eighteen- 
pence  to  sit  for  the  hair,  and  he  was  not  going  to  that  ex- 
pense for  nothing."  Nollekens  was  a  miser,  and  in  other 
respects  an  oddity.  Mulready,  who  remembered  calling 
on  him  to  express  his  acknowledgment  for  a  vote  that  the 
sculptor  may,  or  may  not,  have  given  him,  on  his  election 
as  an  associate,  described  the  sculptor  and  his  workshop 
to  me — the  former  as  a  little  thin-lipped,  mean-looking 
creature  ;  the  latter  as  filled  with  casts  of  admirable  qual- 
ity. Among  them  Nollekens  showed  the  young  painter 
a  bust,  or  "  busto,"  as  he  called  it,  of  Yorick,  otherwise 
Sterne. 

"  Yes,  that's  Yorick's  busto  that  I  done  (sic)  in  Rome. 
And  that — oh,  that's  just  a  bit  of  accidental  natur,"  al- 
luding to  a  lovely  female  figure  which  had  attracted  Mul- 
ready's  admiration. 

Pictures  were  picturs  and  nature  was  natur  in  the  Nol- 
lekens times.  I  don't  suppose  Reynolds  ever  said  picture 
in  his  life. 


THE    GREAT   ACTORS    OP   MY    YOUTH.  269 

Landseer  had  a  story  of  Nollekens  worth  repeating. 
George  IV.,  when  Prince  of  Wales,  sat  to  Nollekens  for 
his  bust,  which  was  being  finished,  in  marble.  The  sculp- 
tor was  working  close  to  his  model,  when  a  little  marble- 
dust  found  its  way  to  the  collar  of  the  prince's  coat.  Nol- 
lekens blew  it  off,  and  in  the  same  breath  said  to  the 
prince: 

"  How's  your  father?" 

The  king  was  just  recovering  from  a  long  illness. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Nollekens,  he  is  much  better." 

"Ah!  that's  all  right!"  said  Nollekens.  "It  would 
be  a  sad  thing  if  he  was  to  die,  for  we  shall  never  have 
another  king  like  him." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  prince. 

"Ah,  sir  !  you  may  depend  upon  that." 

But  I  am  drifting  away  from  my  picture  and  the  diffi- 
culties of  it.  After  many  trials  from  a  variety  of  models, 
I  succeeded  in  getting  a  tolerable  resemblance  to  the 
various  personages,  as  we  know  them  from  prints  and 
pictures,  and  it  was  not  till  after  the  picture  was  in  the 
exhibition,  unfortunately,  that  I  found  I  might  have  se- 
cured an  excellent  model  for  Garrick.  And  thus  the  mat- 
ter fell  out :  My  friend  Mr.  Cundall,  the  manager  of  the 
Stafford  Place  branch  of  the  London  and  Westminster 
Bank,  received  a  visit  from  a  stranger  on  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  bank.  The  moment  the  gentle- 
man entered  the  manager's  private  room  his  extraordi- 
nary resemblance  to  Garrick  so  struck  Cundall  that  my 
picture  instantly  came  into  his  mind,  together  with  a  re- 
gret that  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  avail  myself  of  so  valr 
able  a  model.  After  some  talk,  the  business,  whatever  it 
may  have  been,  was  concluded,  and  it  was  necessary  for 
the  stranger  to  give  his  name,  and  the  manager's  surprise 
may  be  imagined  when  he  found  it  was — Garrick.  His 
astonishment  was  so  evident  that  Mr.  Garrick  asked  the 
cause  of  it.  This  was  explained,  when  the  stranger  said: 

"  Well,  the  likeness  is  easily  accounted  for,  for  my 
grandfather  was  Garrick's  brother." 

The  female  element,  considered  justly  an  important  fac- 
tor in  all  pictures,  was  conspicuous  by  its  absence  from 


270  MY   AUTOBIOGBAPHY   AND    EEMINISCENCES. 

the  company  assembled  at  Boswell's  lodgings  in  Bond 
Street,  or  only  on  evidence  in  the  form  of  a  pretty  servant- 
girl,  who  was  represented  as  announcing  the  late  arrival. 
I  think  I  may  boast  that  having  painted  so  many  pretty 
women,  I  had  acquired  a  reputation  for  the  feat,  and  it 
was  a  great  objection  to  the  "Garrick"  picture,  both  on 
my  own  part  and  that  of  my  friends,  that  the  conditions 
of  the  subject  debarred  me  from  the  advantage  that  the 
introduction  of  the  most  charming  portion  of  humanity 
would  have  afforded  me.  Many  were  the  predictions  that 
the  picture  "  would  never  sell,"  a  feeling  strongly  shared 
by  Mr.  Agnew,  who  bought  it  from  me  for,  I  think,  twelve 
hundred  pounds. 

"It  is  a  capital  picture!"  said  that  eminent  authority; 
"  but  we  shall  have  to  keep  it,  Frith." 

That  "you  should  never  prophesy  unless  you  know," 
was  very  fully  proved  in  this  case,  for  the  picture  changed 
hands  at  the  private  view,  and  became  the  property  of 
Mr.  Mendell,  of  Manchester,  at  whose  death,  some  years 
afterwards,  the  picture  was  sold  at  Christie's  for  four 
thousand  five  hundred  and  sixty-seven  pounds  ten  shil- 
lings, being  the  largest  price  that  had  been  paid  for  the 
work  of  a  living  artist  at  that  time. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"THE  SALON   D'O  B." 

IN  the  Exhibition  of  1868  I  was  represented  by  five 
pictures,  namely,  the  scene  from  Goldsmith's  "  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,"  the  "Johnson  and  Garrick"  subject,  and 
three  minor  works,  one  of  which  represented  Sterne's 
"  Maria,"  so  pathetically  described  in  the  pages  of  that 
writer,  sitting,  with  wandering  mind,  "  a  look  of  wistful 
disorder,"  her  flageolet  in  her  hand,  and  her  goat  by  her 
side.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  goat!  It  was  fortunate 
that  I  got  a  strong  man  to  hold  it;  fortunate,  also,  that 
my  picture  was  not  destroyed,  and  myself  injured.  For 
the  animal  violently  objected  to  being  painted:  it  knocked 
the  man  over,  and  butted  him  as  he  lay  upon  the  floor; 
then  turned  its  attention  to  me,  and  endeavored  to  treat 
me  in  the  same  way.  I  received  its  first  charge  on  my 
mahl-stick,  which  snapped  in  my  defence.  My  assistant 
recaptured  the  brute  just  as  my  easel,  fortunately  a  very 
strong  one,  was  made  the  means  of  experiment  to  try 
whether  the  goat's  head  or  the  mahogany  was  the  harder; 
and  again  he — or  she,  I  think  it  was  (females  are  generally 
vicious— -female  goats,  I  mean) — was  seized  by  the  horns, 
and  her  head  bent  towards  the  floor.  And  now  began 
a  series  of  struggles  in  which  man  and  goat  were  mixed 
together  like  the  Old  Guard  and  our  soldiers  at  Waterloo. 
For  one  moment  the  man  had  the  best  of  it,  and  the  goat 
was  quiet;  then,  watching  its  opportunity,  a  violent  plunge 
was  made,  and  the  man  seemed  to  fly  towards  the  ceil- 
ing, then  down  on  his  back  again,  and  the  butting  recom- 
menced. 

It  was  now  necessary  to  get  more  assistance,  and  I  sent 
for  one  of  my  sons,  a  sturdy  lad,  who  delighted  in  the 
business.  After  that  we  got  or  better,  and  I  succeeded 


272  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AXD    BEMINISCENCES. 

in  painting  an  animal  which,  strange  to  say,  is  not  unlike 
a  goat. 

The  picture  of  Sterne's  "Maria"  is  now  in  the  posses- 
sion of  one  of  the  brothers  Burnand.  The  two  Burnands 
are  specimens  of  the  very  best  kind  of  picture-collectors  ; 
men  of  great  taste  and  judgment — though  they  certainly 
admired  and  sometimes  bought  my  pictures  :  "  Nemo  mor- 
talium  omnibus  horis  sapit "  ('tis  long  since  I  showed  my 
classical  knowledge);  men  who  collected  works  of  art 
from  love  of  them,  and  of  exceptional  liberality,  and  with- 
out a  thought  of  the  mercantile  element  which  so  often 
guides  the  picture-buyer.  Both  these  gentlemen  pos- 
sessed, and,  I  am  happy  to  say,  still  possess,  admirable 
specimens  of  many  of  our  best  artists. 

The  model  for  "Maria"  was  a  pretty,  gentle  creature, 
who  had  a  history.  She  sat  to  me  many  times  for  many 
pictures;  and  it  was  her  sad  expression  as  much  as  her 
beauty  that  suggested  "  Maria  "  to  me,  and  induced  me  to 
try  the  subject.  I  drew  from  her — reluctantly  on  her  side 
— something  of  her  history.  Her  superiority  to  an  ordi- 
nary model  was  apparent  in  many  ways;  her  manner  and 
address  were  ladylike,  and  her  grammar  never  caused  a 
shudder.  I  knew  of  her  mother  as  being  "  one  who  had 
seen  better  days,"  but  was  not  aware  that  my  model  pos- 
sessed a  husband,  until  one  day  when,  seeing  palpable  evi- 
dence of  recent  tears,  and,  among  other  distressing  symp- 
toms, something  very  like  the  mark  of  a  recent  blow,  she 
told  me  she  had  been  married  for  some  time,  and  to  a 
wretch  who  treated  her  with  brutality.  The  man  sought 
her  acquaintance  (he  was  a  journeyman  something  or 
other,  with  a  tolerable  education),  and,  finding  she  was  a 
Sunday-school  teacher,  he  professed  an  ardent  desire  to 
join  in  the  good  work.  She  reluctantly  consented  to  his 
seeing  her  home,  and  making  the  acquaintance  of  her  moth- 
er, who  very  soon  saw  through  the  man,  and  cautioned  her 
daughter  against  him.  But  the  fellow  was  clever  enough 
to  find  out  the  girl's  weaknesses  and  pander  to  them.  He 
was  very  assiduous  at  the  Sunday-school,  affected  a  vener- 
ation for  religion  and  its  observances,  praised  her  beauty 
and  helped  her  to  adorn  it — in  short,  won  her  heart  and 


"THE  SALOX  D'OR."  273 

her  consent  to  marry  him.  This  last  fatal  step,  in  spite 
of  her  mother's  entreaties,  she  persisted  in  taking,  and 
within  a  month  afterwards  the  hypocrite  dropped  his 
mask,  ridiculed  the  religion  in  which  she  sincerely  be- 
lieved, deserted  her  for  others,  came  home  occasionally 
mad-drunk,  beat  her,  and  would  soon  have  killed  her  if 
she  had  not  taken  advice  and  left  him.  She  hid  herself 
successfully  for  some  time,  when,  on  coming  to  me  one 
day  to  sit,  I  saw,  before  she  spoke,  that  her  retreat  had 
been  discovered.  The  man  demanded  money,  and  got  it, 
but  left  her  otherwise  undisturbed.  He  informed  her, 
with  coarse  language,  that  she  needn't  fear  his  wanting  to 
live  with  her  again,  he  had  had  enough  of  her  and  her 
tempers;  but  so  long  as  she  earned  money — he  didn't  care 
how — he  intended  to  have  a  share  of  it. 

Soon  after  this  my  lovely  "Maria"  disappeared  more 
effectually  from  my  knowledge  than  she  had  done  from 
her  husband's.  I  regretted  her  loss,  and  made  many  una- 
vailing inquiries  after  her — all  in  vain.  I  never  saw  her 
again  but  once,  and  then  she  was  lounging  in  a  splendid 
carriage,  with  some  children,  which,  from  the  hasty  glance 
I  had  of  them,  seemed  greatly  to  resemble  herself ;  but 
whether  her  husband  is  dead  and  she  is  married  again,  or 
whether  she  is  not  married  again  and  her  husband  is  not 
dead,  this  deponent  knoweth  not;  but  he  heartily  wishes 
her  well  wherever  or  whatever  she  may  be — only  remind- 
ing her  that  she  has  been  rather  late  in  coming  to  keep  an 
appointment  to  enable  him  to  finish  a  head  begun  nearly 
twenty  years  ago. 

This  dilatoriness  reminds  me  of  a  story  told  of  a  sailor 
who  took  the  opportunity  of  deserting  from  his  ship  on 
the  occasion  of  his  being  sent  ashore  at  some  island  to 
fetch  some  fruit  for  his  captain.  Fifteen  years  afterwards 
the  sailor  was  looking  into  a  print-shop  in  London,  and, 
turning  away  to  resume  his  walk,  he  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  his  deserted  captain.  After  a  look  of  mutual 
recognition  and  astonishment,  mixed,  on  the  sailor's  part, 
with  a  considerable  portion  of  alarm,  the  captain  merely 
remarked,  "  You  have  been  a  long  time  getting  that 
fruit  !" 
12* 


274  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

My  first  sight  of  Boswell  and  his  friends  on  the  Acad- 
emy walls  shocked  me  as  usual.  My  diary  says  : 

"  To  the  R.A.  Pictures  well  placed,  and  looking  well 
— all  but  Johnson,  which  is  hung  too  low,  and  looks 
dingy." 

Dingy  though  it  seemed  to  me,  it  was  much  approved, 
to  my  surprise;  and,  to  this  moment,  I  cannot  account  for 
its  success,  nor  for  the  ridiculous  price  that  was  afterwards 
paid  for  it. 

I  suppose  few  people  in  public  positions  escape  the  cow- 
ardly pest  of  anonymous  letters.  Dickens  told  me  that 
he  received  so  many  as  to  produce  a  habit  of  never  read- 
ing any  letter  till  he  first  ascertained  if  there  was  a  name 
at  the  bottom  of  it.  If  the  missive  was  unsigned,  into 
the  fire  it  went.  I  never  was  favored  in  that  way  but 
once — when  the  "  Boswell "  picture  was  exhibited.  I  think 
the  epistle  emanated  from  a  disappointed  artist,  for  there 
was  an  ass's  head  on  it  very  well  drawn,  and  between  the 
donkey's  ears  were  my  initials,  "  W.P.F." 

"  That's  what  you  are,"  said  the  author ;  "  and  the 
sooner  you  go  to  school  again,  and  learn  to  draw,  the  bet- 
ter it  will  be  for  the  exhibition,  as  you  will  not  disgrace 
it  as  you  do  now." 

It  was  my  habit  in  those  days  to  read  the  "  art  criti- 
cisms "  in  the  papers,  and,  as  the  unfavorable  ones  were 
always  sent  to  me,  I  had  a  good  deal  of  reading.  In  one 
journal  (the  Saturday  Review,  I  think)  one  of  my  larger 
pictures  was  severely  handled.  The  paper  was  sent  to 
me  with  the  most  scathing  remarks  underlined  in  lead- 
pencil;  with  pencilled  remarks  in  the  margin  calling  my 
attention  to  the  critic's  observations  in  such  phrases  as  : 

"  There  you've  got  it !"  "  How  do  you  like  that  ?" 
"  That's  a  nasty  one,  ain't  it?"  and  so  on. 

I  dare,  say  many  such  playful  attacks  have  been  made 
upon  me  since.  If  so,  I  hereby  advertise  the  performers 
that  they  may  save  themselves  trouble ;  for,  as  I  have  said 
before,  I  never  read  a  word  of  art  criticism,  either  about 
myself  or  others. 

My  next  venture  was  in  the  field  of  "  modern  life."  I  do 
not  remember  the  subject  of  it  with  satisfaction,  or  write 


"THE  SALON  D'OB."  275 

about  it  with  pleasure;  though  I  and  my  friends  thought 
well  of  it  at  the  time  of  its  conception.  My  idea  was  to  rep- 
resent two  scenes  (a  double  picture).  In  the  first,  a  young 
gentleman  is  asking  an  elderly  one  for  his  consent  to  a  mar- 
riage with  his  daughter.  In  the  second,  the  young  lady 
is  waiting — sympathetically  supported  by  her  mother — 
in  great  trepidation  for  the  result  of  the  interview.  The 
pictures  were  placed  in  one  frame,  and  called  "  Hope " 
and  "  Fear."  I  cannot  say  they  were  successful — the  sub- 
ject was  considered  to  belong  to  the  "  namby-pamby " 
school — with  considerable  justice,  I  fear.  They  found  a 

purchaser,  however,  in  a  Mr.  X ,  who  was  a  great 

lover  of  art,  without  being  much  acquainted  with  its  mys- 
teries. He  was  a  very  hospitable,  pleasant  gentleman, 
with  a  charming  country-house — to  which  I  paid  several 

visits.  Mr.  X had  a  habit  of  thinking  aloud,  which 

(like  a  similar  propensity  in  Lord  Dudley  and  Ward)  was 
often  the  cause  of  amusement  and  embarrassment  to  his 
friends  and  himself. 

On  one  of  my  visits  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  I  went 

to  church  with  my  host.  X 's  house  was  some  mile 

and  a  half  from  his  place  of  worship,  and  he  drove  me 
there  in  a  double-bodied  kind  of  phaeton — the  front  seat 
made  to  hold  two  persons,  with  a  smaller  seat  behind  for 
a  servant.  We  had  reached  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
church,  when  a  lady  was  seen  walking  along  the  road. 

"  Confound  it !"  said  X (to  himself,  as  he  imagined), 

"  that's  Mrs.  Smith.  It  will  never  do  to  pass  her.  The 
man  must  drive  her  to  church — confound  her  !"  Then  to 
me  :  "  You  see  that  lady  walking  along  there  ?  She  is  a 
particular  friend  of  ours,  and  evidently  going  to  church. 
I  think  we  must  offer  her  the  carriage.  Would  you  mind 
walking  the  rest  of  the  way  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  I  should  like  it." 

Almost  as  I  spoke  the  carriage  stopped  by  the  lady's 
side.  The  usual  "  She  would,  and  she  would  not,"  took 
place,  ending  in  Mrs.  Smith  seating  herself  by  the  groom's 

side,  and  being  carefully  wrapped  up  by  Mr.  X in  a 

fur  rug.  As  X was  tenderly  covering  up  the  lady's 

knees,  he  said  : 


276  MY   AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Sha'n't  take  her  back,  though.  She  is  as  well  able  to 
walk  as  we  are." 

Fortunately  Mrs.  Smith  was  well  acquainted  with 

X 's  infirmity.  She  smiled  an  acknowledgment  of 

his  politeness;  and  she  certainly  walked  home. 

On  another  occasion,  a  large  and  distinguished  company 

was  assembled  in  X 's  drawing-room,  after  one  of  the 

sumptuous  dinners  for  which  he  was  celebrated.  The  walls 
were  covered  with  pictures,  the  merits  of  which  were  free- 
ly discussed  by  the  guests.  I  saw  X ,  with  one  of  his 

guests,  discussing  the  qualities  of  a  picture,  as  was  evi- 
dent by  frequent  pointing  on  the  part  of  the  connoisseur  to 
portions  of  the  work. 

The  guest  had  to  catch  a  train;  and  he  had  no  sooner 
left  the  room  than,  in  the  midst  of  a  momentary  stillness, 

X exclaimed,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  I  don't  care  a  d — n 

what  he  thinks  !"  Then,  to  me,  "  Frith,  do  you  think 
there  is  a  want  of  breadth  throughout  this  picture  ?  My 
friend  So-and-So  says  it  is  dreadfully  '  cut  up.' " 

I  may  here  relate  another  instance  of  thinking  aloud 
that  was  told  me  by  Vice-chancellor  Wigram  : 

Sir  James  Wigram  was  a  guest  at  one  of  the  state  balls 
given  in  the  days  of  William  IV.,  and  during  the  evening 
he  found  himself  close  to  Queen  Adelaide,  who  was  in 
conversation  with  Lord  Dudley  and  Ward.  The  queen 
had  evidently  been  pestered  with  questions,  and  was  in  an 
irritable  state — a  condition,  I  believe,  not  uncommon  with 
her.  Just  as  Wigram  reached  the  pair,  Lord  Dudley 
asked  a  question.  "I  have  answered  that  question  twice 
already,"  said  the  queen. 

"  D — n  her  ! — so  she  has  !"  thought  Lord  Dudley,  and 
said  it  aloud. 

As  the  pictures  of  "  Hope  "  and  "  Fear  "  progressed  I 
was  beset  with  doubts  of  their  success.  My  diary  says,  on 
the  29th  of  July:  "Upper  part  of  mother's  dress  worked 
miserably;  doubtful  of  these  subjects;  they  are  weak,  I 
fear."  I  think  the  pictures  were  sold  separately  eventually 
— a  sure  sign  of  failure;  for  if  a  story  is  well  told,  and  of 
sufficient  interest  in  a  series  of  pictures — as  in  Hogarth,  for 
instance — no  one  would  dream  of  selling  them  separately. 


"THE  SALON  D'OR."  277 

About  this  time  an  exhibition  took  place  at  York.  A 
copy,  on  a  small  scale,  of  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851; 
pictures,  chiefly  old  masters,  playing  a  prominent  part  in 
it.  And  never  was  the  ignorance  of  the  public  in  general, 
and  of  the  owners  of  the  pictures  in  particular,  more  ludi- 
crously displayed. 

A  London  doctor  had  formed  a  large  collection  of  daubs, 
to  which  he  had  attached  great  names,  in  happy  ignorance 
of  the  special  qualities  for  which  the  painters  were  distin- 
guished. So  he  had  a  crucifixion,  by  Ostade;  a  comic 
scene  of  characters  dressed  in  the  costume  of  the  time  of 
George  I.,  by  Rubens,  and  so  on.  And  what  was  stranger, 
was  the  fact  that  the  exhibition  authorities  had  agreed  in 
the  estimate  of  the  enormous  value  of  these  gems,  as  ap- 
praised by  their  owner,  to  the  extent  of  paying  large 
sums  in  the  way  of  insurance.  Query — would  an  insur- 
ance office  be  compelled  to  pay  for  the  destruction  by  fire 
(a  fate  richly  deserved)  of  a  George  III.  Rubens,  if  evi- 
dence were  forthcoming  to  prove  the  absurdity  of  its  af- 
filiation? 

Never  was  a  more  assiduous  student  during  the  whole 
of  his  life  than  William  Etty,  R. A.  Never,  so  long  as  his 
health  lasted,  did  he  miss  a  single  night  at  the  Life  School, 
where  his  studies  from  the  nude  were  the  wonder  and  ad- 
miration of  liis  fellow-students,  young  and  old.  Well  do  I 
remember  the  last  he  made  at  Somerset  House.  It  was 
done  from  a  stalwart  life-guardsman,  and  on  a  pedestal 
partly  supporting  the  figure  was  written,  "  Dulce  dulce 
domiini  vale/" 

The  Academy  migrated  to  Trafalgar  Square  in  1837; 
and  there  Etty  resumed  the  work  that  —  as  I  heard  him 
say — made  his  life  "a  long  summer's  holiday."  The 
journey  up-stairs  to  the  pepper-box  tried  the  old  man 
sorely;  and  many  a  time  did  I  find  him  standing,  when 
half-way  up  the  ascent,  recovering  his  breath,  and  looking 
enviously — if  his  gentle  nature  was  capable  of  such  a  feel- 
ing—  at  the  alert  way  in  which  we  boys  used  to  slip  past 
him  into  the  school. 

My  student-days  began  in  Trafalgar  Square,  where  I 
was  the  very  first  to  enter  my  name  in  the  probationers' 


278  MY   AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AXD    REMINISCENCES. 

book,  and  where,  from  1837  to  1869,  the  most  successful, 
and  consequently  the  happiest,  part  of  my  life  was  spent. 

Apropos  of  Somerset  House,  I  may  relate  a  story  that  I 
heard  of  the  great  room  there,  the  scene  of  the  exhibition 
of  all  the  great  English  pictures,  from  Sir  Joshua  down- 
wards. Round  the  walls  was  a  wooden  dado  of  such 
ancient  construction  that  it  had  to  be  removed,  and  the 
whole  room  altered,  for  the  occupation  of  the  new  tenants 
when  it  was  changed  into  a  government  office,  as  it  now 
exists. 

The  dado  had  been  so  constructed  as  to  leave  a  narrow 
space  between  it  and  the  wall;  and,  on  its  removal,  great 
numbers  of  empty  purses,  of  ancient  and  modern  make, 
were  revealed — eloquent  of  successful  pocket-picking  and 
of  the  cleverness  of  the  thieves  in  rapidly  disposing  of 
recognizable  evidence. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot  give  a  satisfactory  account  of 
my  first  appearance  at  Burlington  House,  where  our  first  ex- 
hibition took  place  in  1869.  So  sure  were  those  in  authori- 
ty that  the  splendid  galleries  could  not  be  filled  with  pre- 
sentable pictures,  that  a  vacant  space  wras  left  round  every 
exhibit — greatly  to  the  advantage  of  each  work,  but  the 
cause  of  the  rejection  of  many  meritorious  pictures. 

Times  change,  and  wre  with  them.  That  arrangement 
was  never  repeated;  and  at  this  time,  1887,  good  works 
are  rejected  from  want  of  space. 

My  contributions  were,  besides  "  Hope  "  and  "  Fear,"  a 
"  Scene  from  *  Don  Quixote,' "  where  the  crazy  knight 
finds  the  damsel  Altisidora  lying  in  the  arms  of  a  friend, 
in  a  pretended  faint  for  love  of  him;  fully  believing  in 
the  lady's  passion,  he  requests  her  friend  (who  declares 
the  love-lorn  damsel  will  not  recover  while  the  Don  is  by) 
to  have  a  lute  placed  in  his  chamber,  so  that  he  may  com- 
fort her. 

In  my  second  picture  I  had  an  admirable  subject,  of  its 
class,  which  I  found  in  a  work  by  Dr.  Doran,  where 
Nell  Gwynne  is  described  as  selling  oranges  to  the  gal- 
lants and  their  ladies  at  the  King's  or  the  Duke's  Theatre, 
and  treating  them  to  many  a  witty  repartee,  as  well  as 
oranges,  in  exchange  for  money  and  wit,  readily  offered. 


,  "THE  SALON  D'OB."  279 

My  other  contribution  was  a  portrait  of  a  friend.  I 
changed  his  broadcloth  into  steel,  and  called  him  "  A  Man 
in  Armor."  The  picture  proved  so  strong  a  likeness  that 
my  friend  was  stopped  in  the  street,  questioned  in  omni- 
buses, and  received  other  proofs  of  his  identity  with  the 
picture,  which  was,  and  is,  one  of  my.  best. 

I  had  been  so  accustomed  to  compliments  on  my  pict- 
ures from  my  brother  artists,  on  the  varnishing  and  pri- 
vate-view days,  that  my  disappointment  was  very  painful 
when  I  found  this  year's  contributions  received  in  silence. 
What  could  be  the  cause  ?  I  could  not  accuse  myself  of 
idleness  or  carelessness.  My  feelings  may  be  imagined  by 
the  following  from  my  diary: 

"  Friday,  April  20. — Private  view — never  was  I  so  dis- 
pirited. My  pictures  don't  seem  cared  for,  and  I  cannot 
understand  it;  I  suppose  I  am  going  wrong." 

The  pictures  were  bought  by  Messrs.  Agnew,  and  sold 
again  at  a  profit,  I  hope;  but  this  I  found  but  a  poor  con- 
solation. In  endeavoring  to  discover  the  causes  of  compar- 
ative failure,  a  proceeding  I  recommend  to  the  young  and 
thy  old  painter,  a  strict  survey  should  be  made  of  the  general 
conduct  of  work,  and  a  decision  arrived  at  as  to  whether 
the  best  efforts  of  the  painter  have  been  exercised  in  the 
production  of  his  less  successful  pictures.  I  cannot  accuse 
myself  of  carelessness,  but  I  think  I  did  too  much,  for 
I  iind  that  not  only  were  three  elaborate  compositions 
painted  in  one  year,  but  that  I  have  to  credit,  or  discredit, 
the  year  with  the  "  Man  in  Armor,"  and  also  an  elaborate 
little  picture  from  "Twelfth  Night,"  being  the  scene  in 
which  Sir  Toby,  Maria,  Aguecheek,  and  Fabian  arc  watch- 
ing Malvolio  as  he  soliloquizes  in  the  sun. 

My  diary  says:  "Try  to  do  better;  get  newer  subjects 
— all  depends  on  subject." 

The  subject  difficulty  is  apparent  enough,  for  I  find  my- 
self next  employed  on  the  well-worn  character  of  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  and  the  beautiful  widow,  a  commission  from 
my  eccentric  friend  Mr.  X ;  and  on  a  still  more  "used- 
up"  theme,  the  well-known  glove-shop  episode  in  Sterne's 
"  Sentimental  Journey."  I  confess  the  "  Grisette's  Pulse" 
had  afforded  me  a  subject  for  one  of  my  first  attempts, 


280  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

now  to  be  seen  in  the  Jones  Collection  at  South  Kensing- 
ton. This  picture  was  exhibited  at  the  British  Institution, 
where  no  one  asked  the  price  of  it.  I  then  sent  it  to  Bir- 
mingham, where  it  was  sold  for  thirty  pounds.  In  due  time 
the  picture  appeared  at  Christie's,  where  it  was  sold  for 
six  hundred  guineas.  My  second  treatment  of  the  Sterne 
was  changed,  and  so  was  the  price  I  received  for  it,  for, 
instead  of  thirty  pounds,  I  received  nine  hundred  from 
Mr.  Coope,  in  whose  collection  it  still  remains. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  idea  seized  me  of  a  famous 
modern-life  subject,  which  I  put  down  in  rough  pen-and- 
ink  scratches,  and  afterwards  developed  into  the  series 
called  "The  Road  to  Ruin."  I  had  been  to  Ascot,  and 
been  greatly  struck  by  the  legalized  gambling  on  that 
famous  race-course,  feeling  greatly  puzzled,  like  so  many 
of  my  fellow-creatures,  to  reconcile  with  the  justice  that 
we  are  taught  to  feel  should  always  accompany  law,  the 
fact  that  men  may  do  with  impunity  in  one  place  what 
they  are  severely  punished  for  if  they  do  it  in  another.  If 
men  meet  in  Hyde  Park  for  the  purpose  of  betting,  and 
are  caught  in  the  act,  imprisonment  will  surely  follow, 
though  the  stakes  may  only  consist  of  a  few  shillings.  In 
the  Royal  Enclosure  at  Ascot  the  "curled  darlings  of  the 
nation  "  may  sacrifice  their  maternal  acres  to  any  extent 
without  the  fear  of  the  law. 

I  remember  asking  a  man  learned  in  the  law  to  explain 
this  anomaly,  and  lie  acknowledged  his  inability,  at  the 
same  time  inquiring  whether  I  was  aware  that  there  was 
one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor. 

With  a  view  to  the  first  of  " The  Road  to  Ruin"  series 
I  went  to  Cambridge,  where  I  saw  a  variety  of  students' 
rooms,  of  which  photographs  were  taken;  these  proved  of 
great  service  in  the  carrying-out  of  the  pictures — an  opera- 
tion which  circumstances  caused  to  be  deferred  for  several 
years.  On  a  visit  to  Baden  in  the  year  1843  the  gaming- 
tables were  in  full  blast,  and  I  remember  feeling  a  strong 
desire  to  strike  out  a  picture  from  them;  but  the  subject 
appeared  to  me  too  difficult  to  be  undertaken  without 
much  more  experience  than  I  had  had  at  that  time. 
When  I  found  that  my  friend  O'Neil  was  bent  on  a  jour- 


"THE  SALON  D'OR."  281 

ney  to  Ilomborg,  and  I  found  also  the  tables  were  to  be 
finally  closed  in  two  years  from  the  year  I  am  dealing 
with  — 1869  —  I  felt  it  must  be  "now  or  never," if  there 
was  a  chance  for  a  true  representation  of  the  scene  to 
be  made.  Accordingly  to  Homburg  I  travelled,  and  the 
following  extract  from  a  letter  to  my  sister  will  give  an 
idea  of  the  first  impression  made  upon  me  by  the  gam- 
blers and  their  surroundings : 

u  My  first  sight  of  the  clustering  crowd  round  the  tables  shocked  me 
exceedingly.  Instead  of  the  noisy,  eager  gamblers  I  expected  to  see,  I 
found  a  quiet,  business-like,  unimpressionable  set  of  people  trying  to  get 
money  without  working  for  it — some,  perhaps,  playing  to  gratify  the  ex- 
citement of  the  gambling  spirit,  and  indifferent  as  to  the  result,  but  the 
motive  of  the  majority  appeared  to  me  a  vulgar  greediness  after  the  stakes. 
Quite  time,  I  thought,  that  a  stop  should  be  put  to  this,  and  a  stop  has  been 
put  to  it.  But  how  about  Ascot?  Is  England  contented  to  be  behind 
Germany  in  tolerating  an  exhibition  even  more  demoralizing  than  the  gam- 
bling-rooms at  llomburg?  I  confess  to  a  love  of  gambling,  though  I 
deny  altogether  the  disposition  to  make  money  by  it,  and,  shocked  though 
I  felt  at  the  crowd  round  the  tables  in  the  Salon  d'Or,  I  very  soon  made 
one  among  them — see  the  demoralizing  effect ! — but,  as  I  never  staked  gold, 
I  gratified  my  excitement  without  much  risk.  Great  numbers  of  tlialers  I 
won,  and,  as  I  continued  gambling,  I  lost  them  all  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  '  Soyez  content  d'un  /*»<,'  suid  the  good-natured  croupier." 

I  did  better,  for  I  bade  adieu  to  the  tables  altogether, 
and  amused  myself  by  studying  the  people  with  a  view 
to  the  picture,  which  afterwards  appeared  at  Burlington 
House  under  the  title  of  "  The  Salon  d'Or."  The  picture 
was  so  popular  as  to  require  the  protection  of  a  rail,  and  I 
can  truly  say  in  its  favor  that,  whatever  may  be  its  merits 
or  demerits  as  a  picture,  it  is  a  strictly  true  representation 
of  a  scene  passed  away  forever — a  painful,  even  a  degrad- 
ing scene  if  you  will,  but  one  well  deserving  record  as  an 
example  of  legalized  indulgence  in  one  of  the  bad  pas- 
sions of  human  nature.  The  picture  was  bought  by  a  Mr. 
Iloffey,  with  a  view  to  the  publication  of  an  engraving. 
An  engraver  was  engaged — a  man  of  some  eminence  when 
the  subject  was  a  dog  or  a  horse,  but  whose  experience  in 
respect  of  the  human  animal  was  so  slight  that  he  was 
quite  at  sea  in  his  attempts  to  reproduce  my  unfortunate 
gamblers.  I  doubt  if  a  worse  print  was  ever  made  from 


282  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

a  figure  picture  since  the  art  of  engraving  was  discovered, 
and  the  failure  was  complete. 

Homburg  was  the  innocent,  or  wicked,  cause  of  another 
small  artistic  effort  of  mine.  It  was  not  very  uncommon 
to  see  ladies  sitting  among  the  orange-trees  smoking  cigar- 
ettes. I  was  attracted  to  one — a  very  pretty  one — whose 
efforts  to  light  her  cigarette  being  unavailing,  called  to  a 
waiter  for  a  light.  A  candle  was  brought,  and  as  the  fair 
smoker  stooped  to  it  she  presented  such  a  pretty  figure, 
and  altogether  so  paintable  an  appearance,  that  I  could 
not  resist  a  momentary  sketch,  afterwards  elaborated  into 
a  small  picture.  I  think  Hogarth  would  have  made  a 
picture  of  such  an  incident,  with  the  addition,  perhaps,  of 
matter  unpresentable  to  the  present  age.  It  might  have 
adorned  our  National  Gallery,  while  I  was  mercilessly  at- 
tacked for  painting  such  a  subject  at  all.  I  knew  very 
well  that  if  I  or  any  other  painter  dared  to  introduce  cer- 
tain incidents  (such  as  bristle  over  Hogarth's  works)  into 
our  pictures,  they  would  have  no  chance  of  shocking  the 
public  that  admires  the  Hogarths  on  the  walls  in  Trafal- 
gar Square,  for  the  Council  of  the  Royal  Academy  would 
prevent  any  such  catastrophe. 

Before  I  take  leave  of  Homburg,  I  may  add,  for  the  in- 
formation of  the  student,  that  to  insure  the  verisimilitude 
of  the  scene  of  the  "  Salon  d'Or"  I  had  large  photographs 
made  of  the  room.  I  am  at  this  moment  writing  in  one 
of  the  chairs  from  the  gaming-table.  I  secured  one  of 
the  croupier's  rakes  and  empty  rouleau-cases,  with  other 
material  necessary  for  my  work;  I  also  sought,  and  found, 
models  for  every  figure.  I  cannot  call  attention  too  often 
to  the  absolute  necessity  for  taking  full  advantage  of  the 
assistance  that  preliminary  care  affords  in  every  work  of 
art. 

I  had  nearly  forgotten  an  incident  connected  with  the 
"  Salon  d'Or  "  picture  that  may  amuse.  In  the  immediate 
foreground  sits  a  roue  who  turns  to  a  lady  standing  by 
him,  with  whom  he -seems  to  have  tender  relations,  and 
places  in  her  hand  some  bank-notes,  evidently — from  his 
smiling  countenance — the  result  of  his  winnings.  The 
lady  receives  the  money,  but  whether  for  the  purpose  of 


"THE  SALON  D'OE."  283 

risking  it  again  or  not,  does  not  appear.  The  model  for 
the  lady  was  a  handsome  dark  girl  whose  name  I  forget. 
She  was  rather  a  stupid  person,  as  what  I  am  about  to  re- 
late will  prove.  The  figure  was  about  half -finished,  when 
my  model  suddenly  announced  her  approaching  marriage. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  I.     "  When  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"  Next  Wednesday." 

"  Been  long  engaged  ?"  inquired  I. 

"  No,  sir.     I've  no  engagements  after  to-day." 

"  That's  not  what  I  mean.  How  long  have  you  known 
your  intended  husband?" 

"About  a  month." 

"What  is  he?" 

"  Don't  know." 

"  Good  gracious  !  Do  you  know  you  are  going  to  run 
a  terrible  risk?" 

"All  weddings  is  risks,"  replied  my  philosopher. 

Then  came  the  withering  idea  over  me  that  the  husband 
might  refuse  to  let  his  wife  sit;  and  if  that  should  be,  where 
was  I?  So  I  gravely  recommenced  the  conversation. 

"  Now,  you  know,  when  an  artist  begins  a  picture  from 
a  particular  person  "  ("  Not  that  you  are  such  a  very  par- 
ticular person,"  thought  I),  "  it  is  absolutely  necessary  he 
should  finish  it  from  the  model  from  whom  he  has  begun 
his  work.  I  do  hope  you  will  not  do  me  the  injury  of  not 
giving  me  the  opportunity  of  finishing  what  I  have  begun 
from  you.  You  will  sit  for  me  after  your  marriage,  won't 
you?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  have  him  if  I  was  to 
give  up  sitting." 

"  That's  right !  Well,  then,  when  can  you  come  to  see 
me  again  ?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  exactly  say,  because  I  have  promised  to 
sit  for  young  this,  and  young  that,  after  we  come  back 
from  Margate." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  had  no  engagements  !" 

"Ah,  I  meant  before  Wednesday." 

"  Suppose  we  say  this  day  month,"  I  proposed. 

"  Eight  you  are,"  said  my  model.  "  This  day  month 
I'll  be  here." 


284  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

As  I  heard  nothing  in  the  interval,  it  was  with  some 
trepidation  that  I  prepared  for  my  sitter  on  the  appointed 
day;  and  it  was  with  much  satisfaction  that,  as  the  clock 
struck  ten,  I  saw  the  lady  walk  into  my  studio.  We  got 
to  work  immediately,  and  I  found  the  model — never  very 
talkative — more  gloomy  than  ever. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  after  a  while,  "  how  do  you  like  married 
life  ?  I  hope  you  are  happy.  How  does  the  husband  turn 
out?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     He's  that  jealous—" 

"  Jealous  !"  echoed  I. 

"Yes,  sir.  He  bothers  my  life  out  with  his  questions. 
He  always  wants  to  know  where  I  been,  what  I  done,  what 
the  artists  says  to  me,  and  all  like  that.  He  torments  me 
dreadful." 

"  Jealous  !"  I  repeated.  "  Not  jealous  of  the  artists  you 
sit  to  ?" 

"Yes;  he  is  downright  jealous  of  every  one  of  'em  !" 

"Well,"  said  I,  "he  will  be  all  right  to-night,  at  all 
events,  for  he  knew  you  were  coming  here.  He  won't  be 
jealous  of  me,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  candid  young  person.  "  It's  the 
young  ones  he's  jealous  of.  He  don't  mind  how  many 
old  gents  like  you  I  sit  to." 

My  contributions  to  the  Exhibition  of  1871  were  the 
"  Salon  d'Or,"  a  scene  from  "  Kenilworth,"  a  half-length 
figure  of  Gabrielle  d'Estree,  and  some  smaller  matter. 
The  "  Kenilworth  "  subject  contained  two  figures — Amy 
Robsart  and  her  maid  Janet,  who  was  represented  adorn- 
ing her  mistress  previous  to  one  of  Leicester's  visits  to 
Cumnor  Place.  The  model  for  Amy  Robsart  was  the  ill- 
starred  Mrs.  Rousby — a  most  beautiful  creature — who 
may  be  remembered  by  many  of  my  readers  as  an  actress 
of  merit,  whose  career,  so  full  of  bright  promise,  was 
brought  to  a  sad  close  by  her  early  death.  I  knew  her 
before  she  appeared  upon  the  stage,  and  those  who  saw 
her  afterwards — lovely  as  she  was — can  have  but  a  faint 
idea  of  her  extraordinary  beauty  as  a  young  girl.  What- 
ever the  cause  may  have  been — before  illness  drove  her 
from  public  life — her  beauty  had  faded  to  such  an  extent 


"THE  SALOX  D'OR."  285 

as  to  throw  doubt  upon  those  who  asserted  her  claims  to 
supreme  loveliness  before  she  entered  upon  the  stage  life. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  vision  of  beauty  that  burst  upon 
us  when  she  entered  the  drawing-room  at  Pembridge  Villas 
on  her  first  visit  here. 

I  painted  her  in  the  character  of  Queen,  or  rather  Prin- 
cess, Elizabeth,  in  Tom  Taylor's  play  "'Twixt  Axe  and 
Crown."  In  spite  of  repeated  efforts  the  beauty  quite 
escaped  me,  though  in  other  respects  the  picture  was  like. 
As  some  one  said  of  Wilkie  (who  had  no  appreciation  of 
female  beauty),  "  He  has  made  his  portrait  of  Lady  Blank  " 
(a  great  beauty)  "  very  like,  barring  her  beauty,  which  he 
has  left  out  altogether." 

I  think  I  may  say  that  Amy  Robsart,  as  represented  in 
my  "Kenilworth"  picture,  was  a  pretty  creature  not  un- 
like my  model;  and  though  not  so  lovely,  a  good  deal  of 
her  beauty  was  displayed.  If  these  lines  should  meet  the 
eye  of  the  owner  of  the  picture — an  unknown  quantity  to 
me — he  may  be  pleased  to  know  these  details  about  it. 

My  diary  for  May  1,  1871,  says: 

"To  R.A.,  where,  to  my  great  delight,  I  find  what  I 
expected,  and  even  more.  Such  a  crowd  as  I  have  not 
seen  since  the  '  Derby  Day,'  and  a  policeman  to  protect 
the  picture.  In  all  probability  a  rail  must  be  put." 

And  on  May  3  I  find: 

"  This  morning  sees  a  rail  put  to  my  picture.  This  is 
the  fourth  railed-in  and  railed-at  picture — and  this  with- 
out my  stir.  Now  to  try  again." 

No  one  could  feel  the  invidious  nature  of  the  special 
mark  of  popularity  that  a  rail  round  a  picture  implied 
more  than  I  did,  and  often  and  often  did  I  beg  the  Aca- 
demy, in  conclave  assembled,  to  consent  to  the  placing  of 
rails  round  all  the  rooms,  and  again  and  again  I  was  de- 
feated. The  delight  of  the  solitary  rail  triumph  is  now 
gone  forever,  for  the  long-deferred  protection  is  afforded 
now  in  every  gallery;  and  what  opened  Academic  eyes  to 
the  necessity  for  it  was  the  injury  done  by  some  malicious 
person  to  the  pictures  in  the  Exhibition  of  1886.  Cuts 
and  scratches,  nearly  always  about  three  feet  from  the 
ground,  were  plentifully  bestowed  on  several  pictures,  ap- 


286  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

parentfy  by  some  instrument  easily  held  close  to  the  pict- 
ures as  the  perpetrator  of  the  mischief  walked  past  them. 
This  little  amusement  will  now  be  difficult,  if  not  impossi- 
ble, for  any  one  to  indulge  in  without  the  risk  of  immediate 
detection. 

Strange  to  say,  a  similar  performance  was  enacted  in  or 
about  the  year  1843.  The  injuries  were  inflicted  upon 
pictures  by  wounds  almost  identical  with  those  of  1886 — 
the  same  distance  from  the  floor,  and  of  the  same  character. 
Some  of  them,  however,  were  more  serious  than  those  of 
1886,  notably  in  one  instance  of  a  very  beautiful  small 
"  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman,"  by  Corbet,  of  Shrewsbury — a 
well-known  excellent  painter  of  small,  highly-finished  por- 
traits. The  eyes  in  the  picture  were  destroyed  by  cutting 
them  down  to  the  panel  on  which  the  portrait  was  painted. 
The  criminal  was  never  discovered,  but  it  was  observed 
by  that  born  joker,  Charles  Landseer,  that  the  destroyer 
of  the  eyes  in  Corbet's  picture  was  most  likely  a  school- 
master in  want  of  pupils!  "Another  such  joke  as  that, 
and  we  will  all  vote  for  your  expulsion,"  said  one  of  a 
group  of  academicians  standing  by. 

I  cannot  refrain  from  staining  my  paper  with  another  of 
C.  L.'s  perpetrations.  A  picture  was  exhibited  of  a  part- 
ing between  two  lovers;  the  gentleman's  horse  is  at  the 
door,  and  as  the  rider  is  about  to  mount  "  and  ride  away," 
he  is  exchanging  farewell  vows  with  his  love,  who  is  lean- 
ing tenderly  towards  him  out  of  a  window  immediately 
above  the  door.  So  constructed  was  the  house  by  the 
artist  (who  was  certainly  no  architect)  that  there  was  no 
space  whatever  for  the  lower  part  of  the  lady's  person  be- 
tween the  bottom  of  the  window  and,  the  top  of  the  door. 

"Look  !"  said  I  to  Landseer,  "there  is  no  place  for  the 
woman  to  stand  in." 

"  She's  the  man's  sweetheart,  notwithstanding"  replied 
the  punster. 

No  sooner  are  the  year's  pictures  launched  before  the 
public  than  I  find  myself  hard  at  work  in  "  fresh  woods 
and  pastures  new."  I  found  a  good  subject  in  Froude, 
who  relates — on  the  authority  of  a  French  chronicler,  I 
think — an  incident  in  the  career  of  that  man  of  many 


"THE  SALON  D'OR."  287 

wives,  Henry  VIII. — a  trifling  matter,  but  well  adapted 
to  pictorial  representation.  The  chronicler  says  that 
Queen  Anne  Boleyn  often  accompanied  her  gentle  hus- 
band on  his  deer-shooting  expeditions  in  Windsor  Forest. 
It  occurred  to  me  to  place  the  royal  couple,  crossbow  in 
hand,  in  a  kind  of  leafy  shelter,  half-hidden  by  branches 
and  bracken,  waiting  for  the  deer  to  be  driven  past  them. 
I  made  Anne  Boleyn  stooping  forward,  her  crossbow  ready, 
while  the  king  behind  her  is  putting  back  an  intruding 
branch,  as  he  lovingly  looks  down  at  the  head  that  soon 
after  followed  suit  among  the  falling  heads  of  that  fearful 
time.  The  figures  were  dressed  in  green,  entailing  much 
difficulty,  as  in  the  landscape — though  touched  by  "Au- 
tumn's fiery  finger" — much  green  predominated;  and  if  I 
did  not  succeed  in  producing  what  in  the  slang  of  to-day 
is  called  a  "  harmony  in  green,"  I  made  a  nearer  approach 
to  an  agreeable  arrangement  than  many  of  the  inexplica- 
ble nocturnes  and  symphonies  that  are  too  often  presented 
to  us  now.  Authorities  for  the  likeness  of  Henry  and  his 
hapless  queen  are  plentiful.  Lord  Denbigh  possesses  a 
lovely  portrait  of  Anne  Boleyn  by  Holbein,  and  from  a 
photograph  of  that  picture,  together  with  a  well-selected 
model,  I  made  a  tolerable  likeness.  My  friend  Sir  William 
Hard  man  played  the  part  of  the  king,  for  that  occasion 
only.  The  learned  Chairman  of  the  Court  of  Quarter 
Sessions  wore  a  beard  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  which  dis- 
figured him  into  a  strong  resemblance  to  Henry  VIII.  I 
took  advantage  of  the  beard,  and  then  endeavored  to  in- 
duce the  wearer  to  remove  it;  and  though  I  have  not  seen 
Sir  William  lately,  I  am  told  the  hirsute  deformity  has 
disappeared.  Lady  llardman's  head  is  still  in  its  natural 
place,  and  her  husband  is  very  amiable  in  private  life,  so 
the  resemblance  to  the  bloodthirsty  king  ceases  with  the 
beard. 

The  dramatists  of  the  Restoration,  notably  Congreve, 
Wycherley,  Vanbrugh,  and  Farquhar,  though  mainly 
painters  of  the  manners  of  a  dissolute  time,  have  always 
been  attractive  to  me  as  presenting  subjects  for  pictures; 
and  it  occurred  to  me  and  a  fellow-student  to  take  up  one 
of  the  plays  of  Vanbrugh,  and  illustrate  every  scene  of  it 


288  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

by  slight  water-color  sketches.  Many  were  the  evenings 
we  spent  over  this  labor  of  love.  We  always  compared 
our  renderings  of  the  same  points,  and  wondered  at  the 
dissimilarity  of  our  conceptions.  Better  practice  in  com- 
position of  light  and  shadow  cannot  be  recommended  to 
the  student.  Though  many,  indeed  most,  of  the  scenes 
were  unworthy  of  the  labor  required  to  reproduce  them  as 
oil  pictures,  I  owe  one  of  my  best  dramatic  pictures  to 
Vanbrugh's  "  Relapse  " — the  play  that  my  friend  and  I 
chose  for  illustration.  The  scene  chosen  is  that  in  which 
Lord  Foppington  describes  his  way  of  passing  his  time  to 
the  two  ladies  of  the  piece,  Amanda  and  Berinthia,  and 
that  inconstant  gentleman  Loveless. 

The  satins  and  brocades,  the  wigs  and  swords  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  afford  seductive  material  for  the  painter;  and 
I  think  I  took  full  advantage  of  them,  and  produced  a 
very  satisfactory  picture.  After  passing  through  several 
hands,  it  is  now  in  the  possession  of  one  of  the  Brasseys; 
but  whether  the  peer  of  that  name  or  his  brother,  I  know 
not. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

i :  i :  j  i :  <  •  T  i:  i  >    SUBJECTS. 

MY  summer  holiday  in  1871  was  spent  at  Boulogne, 
where  I  found  a  subject  for  a  large  composition  suggested 
by  the  annual  procession  in  honor  of  the  Virgin  patroness 
of  the  town.  The  bishop,  with  attending  priests,  number- 
less banners,  living  representatives  of  Scriptural  person- 
ages, wooden  copies  of  holy  things,  and  every  variety  of 
Catholic  ritual,  together  with  crowds  of  votaries  in  long 
procession,  parade  the  town;  and  as  they  go,  women  bring 
their  children,  well  or  ailing,  to  be  blessed  by  the  chief 
priest.  The  scene  was  brilliant  in  color,  and  picturesque 
in  every  sense  of  the  word.  I  think  it  was  one  of  the 
popes  who,  on  giving  his  blessing  to  an  unbeliever  in  its 
efficacy,  said,  "An  old  man's  blessing  can  do  you  no 
harm."  Judging  from  the  eagerness  of  the  mothers  to 
obtain  the  bishop's  blessing,  and  the  benign  dignity  with 
which  it  was  bestowed,  both  giver  and  receiver  had  per- 
fect faith  in  happy  results  from  it.  1  made  many  sketches; 
and  the  longer  I  thought  of  the  subject  the  stronger  be- 
came my  determination  to  paint  a  picture  of  it.  On  in- 
quiring how  it  came  about  that  the  Boulognese  had  arro- 
gated to  themselves  so  special  a  right  to  the  particular 
protection  of  the  Virgin,  I  was  told  that  some  centuries 
ago  a  boat  was  seen  one  night  at  sea,  off  the  harbor  of 
Boulogne,  emitting  a  brilliant  light  from  its  bow.  Some 
sailors  put  off  to  examine  the  singular  apparition,  and  on 
nearing  it,  to  their  awe-stricken  astonishment,  they  found 
that  the  light  proceeded  from  a  figure  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  sitting  solitary  in  the  boat.  The  men  towed  the 
boat  into  the  harbor,  and  the  figure — made  of  wood — was 
conveyed  to  the  cathedral,  where  it  now  remains,  or  I 
should  rather  say  where  rests  all  that  remains  of  it;  for 
13 


290  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

the  free-thinkers  of  the  Revolution  had  so  little  respect  for 
the  holy  relic  that  they  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  it, 
leaving  only  one  of  the  hands,  in  the  possession  of  which 
the  cathedral  still  rejoices. 

Peace  having  been  signed  between  Germany  and  France, 
enabled  me  to  go  to  Paris  with  comfort  and  safety.  I 
found  terrible  traces  of  the  war.  A  German  sentinel 
paced  backward  and  forward  at  the  station  at  Criel.  In 
Paris  itself,  the  huge  stones  of  the  bridge  of  Neuilly  were 
so  knocked  to  pieces  that  the  passage  of  it  was  dangerous. 
Porte  Maillot  was  a  heap  of  rubbish,  and  St.  Cloud  did 
not  contain  a  habitable  dwelling.  The  Tuileries,  so  dear 
to  my  youthful  recollections,  had  been  mercilessly  injured 
by  the  dreadful  Commune.  Douglas  Jerrold  said  the  lib- 
erty of  England  was  preserved  in  brine — the  brine  being 
the  British  Channel.  The  effects  of  war  make  one  value 
"  the  silver  streak  "  that  separates  happy  England  from 
Continental  strife. 

My  time  at  Boulogne  was  mostly  spent  in  reading,  with 
the  result  of  a  subject  from  the  life  of  Lady  Mary  Wort- 
ley  Montagu.  That  celebrated  beauty  and  writer  was 
visited  early  one  morning  by  her  father,  the  Duke  of 
Kingston.  The  visit  was  a  surprise,  for  the  lady  was  not 
fully  dressed.  Her  daughter,  afterwards  Lady  Bute,  in 
describing  the  scene,  says  that  though  she  was  quite  a 
child  at  the  time,  she  well  remembers  the  stately  duke 
appearing  suddenly  in  her  mother's  dressing-room,  and  the 
immediate  sinking  of  her  mother  on  her  knees,  asking  and 
receiving  her  father's  blessing.  I  represented  Lady  Mary 
in  her  brocade  dressing-gown,  the  duke  with  the  star  al- 
ways worn  at  that  time  by  those  entitled  to  it,  while  the 
future  Lady  Bute,  still  in  her  toy-time,  plays  about  the 
floor.  This  picture  was  bought  by  George  Moore,  well 
known  for  his  active  philanthropy,  whose  sad  death  a  few 
years  ago  was  deplored  by  all  who  knew  him,  and  by 
numbers  whose  knowledge  of  the  man  was  only  derived 
from  his  acts  of  beneficence. 

My  contributions  to  the  Academy  in  1872  consisted  of 
the  scene  from  Vanbrugh,  "  Lady  MaryWortley  Montagu," 
and,  most  successful  of  all,  a  small  picture  of  Boulogne 


REJECTED   SUBJECTS.  291 

fruit-girls,  entitled  "  At  my  Window,  Boulogne."  To  the 
window  of  our  lodgings  came  two  girls,  carrying  large 
flat  baskets  of  grapes  and  peaches.  They  were  dressed  in 
effective  costumes,  with  the  high-frilled  cap  common  to 
their  species,  and  had  bright,  pretty  faces.  As  they  stood 
in  the  street  resting  their  baskets  on  the  window-sill — the 
open  window  forming  a  frame  for  them  —  they  made 
"  quite  a  picture."  I  bought  many  peaches  and  grapes, 
and  the  girls'  dresses  and  caps  also;  and  judging  from  the 
many  demands  I  received  for  the  picture,  and  the  compli- 
ments paid  me  upon  it,  I  think  I  may  consider  it  one  of 
my  best. 

An  amusing  trifle  might  be  written  in  which  overheard 
remarks  made  in  public  galleries  upon  the  works  displayed 
would  surprise  by  their  naivete,  and  also  by  the  surpassing 
ignorance  of  the  speakers.  Here  is  an  example  told  me 
by  my  old  friend  Faed,  R.A.,  whose  delightful  renderings 
of  Scottish  life  are  so  well  known.  Some  few  years  ago 
Faed  exhibited  a  picture  called  "  His  Only  Pair."  A  small 
Scotch  boy  sits  with  dangling  naked  legs  upon  a  table, 
while  his  mother  mends  his  only  pair  of  breeks.  The 
urchin  is  vigorously  sucking  an  orange  to  beguile  the  tune 
of  waiting.  Two  female  visitors  to  the  exhibition  were  in 
front  of  the  picture.  One  held  the  catalogue,  and  in  reply 
to  her  friend's  inquiry,  "  What  is  the  subject?"  replied: 

"  <  His  Only  Pair.' " 

"Pear?"  said  the  connoisseur.  "It  looks  more  like  an 
orange." 

Another  example  occurs  to  me.  A  fine  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Charles  Dickens,  painted  by  Maclise,  was  exhibited  in 
Trafalgar  Square.  I  happened  to  be  close  to  two  ladies 
who  were  eagerly  scanning  the  picture,  which  by  a  mis- 
print in  the  catalogue  was  called  "  Mr.  Charles  Dickens." 

"  Why,"  said  one  of  the  visitors,  "  it  is  a  portrait  of  a 
lady;  it  can't  be  Mr.  Charles  Dickens!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  replied  her  friend.  "  You  know  he  is 
a  great  actor  as  well  as  writer;  and  the  picture  represents 
him  in  some  female  character.  I  wonder  what  the  play 
was." 

Yet  another  instance.     A  friend  of  mine  exhibited  a 


292  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

picture  called  "  A  Volunteer."  The  scene  was  the  deck  of 
a  shipwrecked  vessel.  It  is  crowded  by  terrified  people — 
apparently  emigrants.  One  of  the  sailors  has  volunteered 
to  swim  ashore,  and  is  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  ship, 
carrying  a  rope  to  be  attached,  probably,  to  some  life-sav- 
ing apparatus. 

"  A  volunteer  T*  said  an  enlightened  looker-on.  "  That's 
no  volunteer — where  are  his  regimentals  ?" 

In  an  exhibition,  some  years  ago,  I  put  in  an  appear- 
ance with  a  small  work  of  a  girl  with  a  dove  on  her 
shoulder.  The  girl  was  a  gentle-looking,  rather  dovelike 
creature;  so  I  christened  the  picture  "Two  Doves."  I 
heard  a  lady  who  was  looking  at  it  say: 

"  Two  doves  ?  Why,  that  must  be  a  misprint.  Where 
is  the  second  dove  ?" 

I  know  some  of  my  younger  brethren  who  icere  fond  of 
standing  by  their  pictures  to  listen  to  the  remarks  made 
upon  them.  I  say  were  fond  of  the  practice.  But  the 
desire  to  hear  genuine  opinion  seldom  lasts  long  ;  for 
though,  in  the  course  of  an  hour,  you  may  hear  pleasant 
things,  your  satisfaction  will  be  pretty  sure  to  be  marred 
by  remarks  the  reverse  of  complimentary. 

An  artist,  who  seldom  paints  anything  but  what  are 
called  "  religious  subjects,"  saw  some  ladies  eagerly  scan- 
ning his  work,  when  a  gentleman  friend  came  up  to  them 
and  said: 

"What's  that?  Oh,  a  Scripture  piece.  Don't  waste 
time  with  that — it's  very  bad.  All  their  Scripture  pict- 
ures are  shocking!" 

My  friend  the  sacred  painter  has  no  respect  for  public 
opinion. 

The  fact  of  its  being  "  the  thing  "  to  go  to  the  Academy 
Exhibition  takes  great  numbers  there  who  care  for  art  just 
as  much  as  they  know  about  it,  and  that  is  nothing  at 
all. 

A  year  or  two  ago  I  was  standing  in  the  Great  Gallery 
at  Burlington  House,  when  two  young  gentlemen  saun- 
tered into  it.  Then  each,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  threw  languid  glances  round  the  walls;  and  one  said 
to  the  other : 


REJECTED    SUBJECTS.  293 

"  The  things  are  all  very  much  alike.  Come  away,"  and 
they  went  away. 

It  was  my  fate  in  the  year  1872  to  serve  on  the  Hanging 
Committee — never  anything  but  a  painful  duty;  that  year 
peculiarly  so,  from  the  many  good  pictures  (in  my  opinion, 
good  pictures)  that  were  sent  back  to  their  producers, 
there  being  no  room  for  them  on  the  walls.  And,  strange 
to  say,  the  bad  pictures  offered  to  us  were  as  much  worse 
than  usual,  as  the  more  successful  ones  were  better.  The 
very  worst  attempts  at  painting  produced  in  this  country 
—  or  any  other — were  submitted  to  the  committee  for 
acceptance.  Among  the  rest  were  some  drawings  said  to 
be  done  by  spirits.  They  were  painted  in  water-colors, 
and  handsomely  framed  and  glazed,  of  course,  at  a  con- 
siderable expense.  They  were  quite  indescribable,  resem- 
bling nothing  in  heaven  above  or  on  the  earth  beneath, 
and  were  necessarily  laughed  out  of  the  rooms.  Now,  it 
does  appear  to  me  that  the  spirits  must  have  known  that 
their  works  would  be  beyond  our  comprehension,  and,  there- 
fore, sure  to  be  rejected;  why,  then,  suffer  their  proselytes 
to  be  at  the  mercy  of  such  ignorant  people  as  ourselves  ? 
to  say  nothing  of  the  unnecessary  trouble  and  expense  in- 
curred by  the  proprietors  of  such  spiritual  things! 

The  practice  of  the  Academy  as  regards  the  reception 
of  works  intended  for  exhibition  is  so  well  known  as  to 
make  what  I  am  about  to  tell  almost  incredible.  It  is 
nevertheless  true  that  a  lady  took  a  small  picture  to  Bur- 
lington House,  on  the  day  named  for  receiving  pictures, 
and  showed  it  to  one  of  the  porters,  telling  him  it  was  for 
exhibition. 

"  All  right,  madam,"  said  the  man,  offering  to  receive 
the  picture. 

"  No,  no  !"  said  the  lady.  "  I  must  hang  it  myself.  It 
has  been  painted  for  a  particular  light;  and  I  wish  to  se- 
lect the  proper  place  and  light  myself." 

That  work — perhaps  a  great  picture — disappeared  with 
its  producer,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

I  conclude  my  remarks  on  the  eccentricity  of  public 
judgment  in  the  matter  of  the  subject  of  pictures,  by  the 
following  example  : 


294  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

The  play  of  the  "  Colleen  Bawn  "  may  be  familiar  to 
many  of  my  readers,  and  they  will  remember  that  an  at- 
tempt was  made  to  drown  the  heroine  by  a  person  called 
Danny  Mann.  Just  at  the  time  that  the  play  was  in  the  full 
swing  of  its  popularity,  a  fine  picture  by  Paul  Delaroche 
was  exhibited,  called  "A  Christian  Martyr."  Death  by 
drowning  was  the  fate  awarded  to  the  unfortunate  Chris- 
tian, who  was  represented  as  a  beautiful  young  girl,  just 
on  the  point  of  sinking  to  a  "  muddy  death."  I  have 
again  to  accuse  the  gentler  sex  of  a  ludicrous  mistake,  for 
I  heard  one  lady  say  to  another  : 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  Irish  face  !  Look,  there's  the 
Colleen  Bawn ;  and  that  man  on  the  bank  is  that  wretch 
Danny  Mann,  gloating  over  her,  poor  thing  !" 

My  desire  to  discover  materials  for  my  work  in  modern 
life  never  leaves  me,  and  will  continue  its  influence  as 
long  as  my  own  life  lasts;  and,  though  I  "have  occasion- 
ally been  betrayed  by  my  love  into  themes  somewhat 
trifling  and  commonplace,  the  conviction  that  possessed 
me  that  I  was  speaking — or,  rather,  painting — the  truth, 
the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  rendered  the 
production  of  real-life  pictures  an  unmixed  delight.  In 
obedience  to  this  impulse  I  began  a  small  work  suggested 
by  some  lady-archers,  whose  feats  had  amused  me  at  the 
seaside.  I  found  sufficiently  satisfactory  models  in  three 
of  my  daughters,  one  of  whom  is  in  the  act  of  shooting, 
the  others  standing  by,  bow  in  hand;  a  landscape  back- 
ground foils  the  figures  agreeably  enough.  The  subject 
was  trifling,  and  totally  devoid  of  character-interest;  but 
the  girls  are  true  to  nature,  and  the  dresses  will  be  a  rec- 
ord of  the  female  habiliments  of  the  time. 

I  made  my  desire  for  subjects  for  pictures  so  generally 
known — even  offering  large  rewards  for  suggestions  (the 
only  condition  being  that  they  should  be  such  as  I  consid- 
ered worthy  of  representation) — that  I  was  often  the  re- 
cipient of  strange  advice.  A  stranger  called  on  me,  when 
a  conversation  like  the  following  took  place  : 

"  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "  I  have  been  told  that  you  are 
willing  to  pay  for  a  fine  subject  for  a  picture.  What 
would  you  be  disposed  to  give  for  one  about  as  big  as 
your  'Railway  Station'?" 


REJECTED   SUBJECTS.  295 

"  If,"  said  I,  "  you  can  propose  to  me  a  subject  for  a 
picture  of  the  size  and  importance  of  the  one  you  name,  or 
of  the  '  Derby  Day,'  I  will  give  you  two  hundred  pounds 
for  it.  What  is  your  subject  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  should  be  satisfied  with  the  terms  you 
mention,  but  the  subject  is  my  secret;  and  I  hardly  like 
to  mention  it,  because  I  should  not  like  it  to  be  known,  if 
you  were  to  refuse  it." 

"  Oh,"  I  replied,  "  I  will  give  you  my  promise  not  to 
reveal  it  if  it  is  worth  keeping  secret;  and  I  also  promise 
to  pay  you  the  sum  I  name  in  the  event  of  my  painting  it. 
What  is  it?" 

After  further  hesitation  my  visitor  said  : 

"  A  review  in  Hyde  Park  !" 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  I,  "  there  is  no  novelty  in  that — it 
has  been  done  pretty  often,  in  illustrated  papers  and  in 
pictures." 

As  the  man  wa"s  evidently  sincere  in  his  belief  that  he 
had  discovered  a  treasure,  I  tried  to  enlighten  him  regard- 
ing some  essentials  without  which  his  subject  would  be 
"  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable." 

"  There  must  be  a  main  incident  of  dramatic  force,  and 
secondary  ones  of  interest.  How  could  such  be  evolved 
from  troops  manoeuvring  and  a  crowd  looking  on  ?" 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  I've  thought  of  all  that.  I'll  tell  you 
how  to  do  it.  I  should  have  in  front — what  you  call  the 
foreground,  ain't  it  ? — a  man  selling  ginger-beer.  You 
must  make  him  just  opening  a  bottle;  the  beer  must  be 
very  much  up — hot  day,  and  that — and  so  the  cork  flies 
into  a  woman's  eye;  and  then — " 

"  That  is  enough  !"  said  I.  "  I  don't  think  your  subject 
would  suit  me.  But  if  I  ever  paint  a  picture  of  it,  you 
shall  have  the  reward  I  promised." 

"  Well,  but  wait  a  bit,  sir.  Just  you  think,  now — there 
might  be  a  fat  woman  paying  threepence  for  a  stand,  and 
the  stand  breaks  down,  and  she  wants  her  money  back  ; 
and  the  stand-man  says  he'll  be — " 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but,  really,  I  won't  take  up  any  more  of 
your  time.  Mine  is  also  valuable,  so  I  must  wish  you 
good-morning." 


296  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   EEMINISCENCES. 

On  another  occasion  I  was  favored  with  a  visit  from  a 
respectable-looking  man,  also  big  with  a  subject.  After 
preliminary  arrangements,  and  promises  of  reward,  the 
idea  was  disclosed  : 

" '  There's  a  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft, 
Keeping  watch  o'er  the  life  of  poor  Jack.' " 

"A  cherub!"  said  I.  "I  never  saw  a  cherub;  don't 
know  what  a  cherub  is  like — do  you?  Perhaps  you  are 
not  aware  that  artists  don't  trust  to  their  imaginations  for 
models;  at  least,  I  don't.  So  what  am  I  to  do  for  a  model 
for  your  cherub  ?" 

"A  cherub,"  said  the  man,  with  the  confidence  of  one 
well  acquainted  with  such  people,  "is  a  naked  child;  and 
you  should  paint  him  sitting  on  the  tip-top  of  the  mast 
of  a  big  ship.  You  needn't  put  in  the  hull  of  the  vessel 
— just  a  yard-arm,  and  a  bit  of  sail  torn  away  by  the 
storm;  a  black  sky,  and  the  lightning  and  thunder" — 
("Difficult,"  thought  I,  "to  paint  thunder  as  to  represent 
the  same  woman  doing  three  different  things,  as  proposed 
in  the  review  subject") — "going  it  like  anything.  The 
mast  should  be  rocking,  and  the  cherub  holding  on  to  it 
like  grim  death,  smiling  all  the  while  at  the  sailors  below." 

As  the  man  spoke,  my  mind,  in  search  of  an  authority 
for  the  cherub,  wandered  to  certain  monumental  repre- 
sentations of  those  creatures;  and,  unless  my  memory  be- 
trayed me,  the  difficulty  of  sitting  on  the  tip-top  of  a  mast, 
or,  indeed,  of  sitting  at  all,  was  quite  apparent  in  all  of 
them.  I  hinted  as  much,  and  my  friend  said  : 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure  !  I  never  thought  of  that.  Well,  he 
must  have  wings,  you  know — they  all  have — and  he  might 
be  flying  about  the  mast.  Wouldn't  that  do  ?" 

"Very  well.  Only  what  becomes  of  your  quotation, 
which  says  your  sweet  little  cherub  is  sitting  aloft  ?" 

I  was  again  obliged  to  confess  that  the  subject  pro- 
posed was  beyond  my  powers. 

The  name  of  Whiteley,  universal  provider,  by  whom  a 
large  portion  of  Westbourne  Grove  has  been  made  into  a 
huge  establishment,  is  known  all  over  the  world.  I  have 
cause  to  know  it,  because  my  requirements  are  often  sup- 


REJECTED   SUBJECTS.  297 

plied  from  the  emporium  presided  over  by  that  extraordi- 
nary man  ;  but  till  what  I  am  about  to  relate  took  place, 
I  never  knew  him  in  the  flesh. 

A  letter  was  brought  to  me  asking  for  an  interview  on 
"  a  matter  of  business,"  signed  "  William  Whiteley."  I 
was  much  puzzled  as  to  what  the  "business"  could  be,  as 
I  owed  Mr.  Whiteley  nothing  at  the  time;  indeed,  the 
principles  on  which  he  conducts  his  business  are  such  as 
to  prevent  the  possibility  of  anybody  owing  Mr.  Whiteley 
anything  for  an  unreasonable  time. 

Punctually  at  9.30,  the  appointed  hour,  the  great  trader 
made  his  appearance,  and  a  shrewd,  smart,  honest  appear- 
ance it  is. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Whiteley,"  said  I,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  " 
(I  was  both  glad  and  curious).  "  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  am  an  admirer  of  your  works." 

"  I  reciprocate  the  compliment,"  said  I.  "  I  sincerely 
admire  yours." 

Mr.  Whiteley  bowed,  and  proceeded  to  say  that  he  had 
seen  "  Ramsgate  Sands,"  and  he  greatly  admired  the  va- 
riety of  character,  the — etc.,  etc.  He  had  also  seen  the 
"  Railway  Station,"  about  which  he  was  complimentary 
to  an  extent  that  my  modesty  prevents  my  repeating;  and 
he  admired  so-and-so — running  through  a  whole  catalogue 
of  my  pictures — ending  by  proposing  a  subject  for  a  pict- 
ure, to  be  called  "  Whiteley's  at  Four  o'Clock  in  the  Af- 
ternoon." 

"  I  should  leave  it  to  your  discretion,  sir,  to  choose  either 
the  inside  of  the  place  or  the  outside.  If  you  take  the 
former,  you  would  have  the  aristocracy  making  their  pur- 
chases. You  might  introduce  the  young  ladies  who  do 
me  the  honor  to  assist  in  my  establishment,  many  of  whom 
are  very  pretty.  Then  there  are  what  are  called  shop- 
men, with  fine  heads,  and  every  conceivable  detail  for 
your  back  and  fore  grounds.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
select  the  outside  of  the  shops  you  could  introduce  the 
commissionaires,  who,  as  you  may  have  observed,  wear  a 
picturesque  livery  created  by  me;  you  would  have  the 
nobility  and  gentry  stepping  into  their  carriages,  with — 
13* 


298  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

forgive  my  suggestions,  they  are  subject  to  your  criticism 
— street  -  beggars,  toy -sellers — think  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween them  and  my  customers — and  all  the  variety  of 
character  that  Westbourne  Grove  always  presents.  There 
is  but  one  stipulation  that  I  venture  to  make  if  you  select 
Westbourne  Grove  for  the  locality  of  the  work,  namely, 
that  the  whole  length  of  the  shops  should  be  shown,  care 
being  taken  that  the  different  windows  should  display  the 
specialties  of  the  establishment." 

As  I  listened  to  this  extraordinary  proposal,  I  found 
myself  wondering  if  the  proposed  picture  was  intended  to 
act  as  an  advertisement  for  Whiteley's,  when,  as  if  he 
read  my  thoughts,  Mr.  Whiteley  said  : 

"I  never  advertise;  I  never  spent  a  shilling  in  that  way 
in  my  life.  My  notions  of  the  advantages  of  advertising 
take  the  form  of  good  things  at  so  small  a  profit  as  to 
make  the  purchasers  recommend  their  friends  to  come  to 
my  shops  ;  and  I  have  found  that  method  of  advertising 
so  satisfactory  that  I  feel  no  inclination  to  spend  the  enor- 
mous sums  that  some  of  my  brethren  in  trade  find,  or 
think  they  find,  profitable." 

He  then  proceeded  to  inform  me  that  he  began  in  a  very 
small  way  of  business  in  a  street  off  Westbourne  Grove, 
with  only  two  shop-girls  to  assist. 

"  I  married  one,"  said  he,  "  and  the  other — no  longer  a 
girl — is  still  with  me." 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  my  visitor,  and  sorry  that  an 
engagement  with  my  usual  ten-o'clock  model  afforded  me 
so  little  time  to  say  much  more  than  that  I  would  con- 
sider his  proposal  and  let  him  know  the  result.  I  thought 
the  matter  over,  and  declined  the  commission,  and  have 
often  thought  since  that,  though  I  should  fear  to  under- 
take it,  much  might  have  been  done  with  it.  And  if  Mr. 
Whiteley  should  read  my  account  of  our  interview  I  hope 
he  will  forgive  me  for  relating  it  in  conjunction  with  the 
ridiculous  proposals  already  mentioned.  I  think  his  sug- 
gestion by  no  means  absurd,  but  very  much  the  contrary; 
and  I  also  hope  he  will  acknowledge  that,  in  the  telling 
of  it,  I  have  extenuated  nothing,  nor  "  set  down  aught  in 
malice." 


REJECTED    SUBJECTS.  299 

During  the  trial  of  the  Tichborne  claimant  a  subject 
was  proposed  to  me.  I  may  here  remark  that  when  a 
painter  is  hard  at  work  visitors  should  be  resolutely  ex- 
cluded. I  have  a  wife  who  guards  me  in  that  respect  like 
a  dragon,  and  I  am  thus  saved  from  interruptions  which, 
though  they  may  take  up  but  little  time,  cause  a  wrench 
from  one's  work  that  is  not  only  painful,  but  injurious. 
So  when,  one  day,  my  servant  informed  me  that  a  Captain 

N wanted  to  see  me  on  a  matter  of  business,  I  sent 

my  "fidus  Achates"  to  inquire  what  the  business  was. 
When  I  heard  that  my  visitor  came,  on  the  part  of  a 
committee,  to  offer  me  a  commission  on  my  own  terms  to 
paint  a  large  modern  subject,  I  put  down  palette  and  brush- 
es, full  of  curiosity  to  know  the  nature  of  the  proposal. 

I  found  Captain  N to  be  unmistakably  a  gentleman, 

curiously  reluctant  to  disclose  his  subject  till  I  would 
promise  to  paint  a  picture  of  it.  The  reluctance  was  sur- 
mounted, and  I  found  it  was  proposed  that  I  should  paint 
the  trial  of  the  Tichborne  claimant,  then  drawing  very 
near  its  close;  the  main  object  being  the  exhibition  of  the 
picture  in  London  and  the  country,  to  procure  funds  for  the 

defence  of  "  my  ill-used  friend,"  as  Captain  N called 

him. 

"You  will  have  no  difficulty  as  to  sitters,  Mr.  Frith. 
The  jury  have  agreed  to  give  you  every  opportunity; 
the  judge — Cockburn,  you  know — has  been  sounded,  and 
has  expressed  no  objection ;  the  barristers  employed  have 
consented;  and  the  claimant  is  only  too  anxious  to  see  the 
work  confided  to  you." 

"  Well,  but,"  said  I,  "  the  trial,  surely,  cannot  last  much 
longer;  it  may  be  over  any  day.  And,  suppose  your  friend 
is  condemned,  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  come  here,  and 
I  could  not  go  to  him." 

"  You  may  rest  assured  there  is  not  the  least  chance  of 
an  adverse  verdict.  We  will  take  the  risk  of  that." 

"Indeed,"  said  I;  "I  don't  share  your  confidence  in  the 
favorable  result  of  the  trial.  I  have  read  all  the  evidence, 
and  I  think  the  claimant  will  be  severely  punished;  and  I 
hope  you  won't  mind  my  saying  that  I  think  he  richly  de- 
serves what  in  all  probability  he  will  get." 


300  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Do  you,  indeed  ?"  said  Captain  N- ,  not  in  the  least 

annoyed.     "  Then  you  don't  believe  him  to  be  Sir  Roger 
Tichborne  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.     Do  you?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  I  believe  him  to  be  the  real  man,  be- 
cause I  am  quite  sure  of  it;  indeed,  I  wonder  how  you  or 
any  one  else  can  reconcile  the  unimpeachable  evidence  in 
my  friend's  favor  with  the  idea  of  imposture.  Now,  though 
I  have  not  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance,  I  don't  think 
you  will  doubt  that,  what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  is  abso- 
lutely true;  and,  when  you  have  heard  it,  I  shall  be  curi- 
ous to  know  how  you  can  doubt  that  the  man  now  on  his 
trial  is  Sir  Roger  Tichborne.  I  must  tell  you  that  Sir 
Roger  is  now  living  with  me;  we  constantly  pass  together 
the  time  that  does  not  require  his  presence  in  court.  Well, 
so  recently  as  the  day  before  yesterday,  I  went  to  my  tail- 
or's to  pay  my  account;  and  as  I  was  writing  my  check 
the  head  of  the  firm — a  stanch  believer,  by  the  way — asked 
me  if  the  evidence  of  one  who  had  seen  the  real  Sir  Roger 
(to  use  the  common  phrase)  before  he  left  the  country  on  his 
supposed  fatal  voyage  would  be  of  service  as  a  witness,  as 
a  man,  now  in  the  .employment  of  a  firm  of  tailors  called 
Bugby  &  Haynes,  was  ready  and  willing  to  go  to  the  court 
and  swear — as  he  was  justified  in  doing,  having  seen  the 
claimant  in  the  street — to  his  identity  with  the  Sir  Roger 
whom  he  well  remembered.  I  thanked  my  informant,  but 
said  that  as  so  many  had  recognized  Sir  Roger,  another 
voice  on  the  same  side  was  scarcely  worth  consideration. 
However,  on  thinking  the  matter  over,  I  felt  curious  to 
see  the  man,  as  he  might  be  possessed  of  some  convincing 
proof  beyond  that  of  mere  recognition.  I  accordingly 
sought  out  the  establishment  of  Messrs.  Bugby  &  Haynes, 
and  found  the  man  I  sought  in  the  foreman  of  the  concern, 
to  which,  twenty  years  before,  he  had  been  in  the  inferior 
position  of  porter. 

" '  I  hear,'  said  I,  '  you  are  willing  to  give  evidence  in 
favor  of  Sir  Roger  Tichborne  ?  Have  you  any  evidence 
in  his  favor  beyond  your  power  of  recognizing  him  ?  How 
and  where  did  you  see  him  as  a  young  man  ?' 

" '  I  will  show  you,'  said  he,  as  he  took  down  an  old 


REJECTED    SUBJECTS.  301 

ledger;  'here  you  see,  sir,  is  an  entry  of  a  pair  of  leather 
breeches  (we  dealt  in  nothing  else  then,  leather  breeches 
being  our  specialty)  supplied  to  Roger  Tichborne,  then  on 
a  visit  to  Sir  James  Tyrrell,  in  St.  James's  Square.  I  took 
home  those  breeches  and  delivered  them  to  the  young 
gentleman,  and  he  carefully  examined  them  before  he 
would  pay  the  bill.  I  looked  well  at  him  then,  and  again 
afterwards,  when  he  called  to  say  he  had  tried  the  breech- 
es, and  liked  them  very  much.' 

"  *  Well,  I  will  let  you  know  if  you  are  wanted.' 

"Last  evening  I  was  writing  a  note  in  my  chambers. 
Sir  Roger  was  reading  opposite  to  me,  when  it  occurred 
to  me  to  question  him  about  the  leather  breeches;  and  I 
proceeded  to  do  so,  as  cautiously  as  I  thought  an  opposing 
barrister  might  do. 

" '  By  the  way,  Sir  Roger,'  said  I, '  what  tailor  did  you 
patronize  when  you  were  in  London  ?  Were  your  clothes 
made  in  London  ?' 

"  '  Sometimes — generally,  indeed,'  was  the  reply. 

"  '  Do  you  remember  the  name  of  your  tailor?' 

" '  Yes,  Stultz,  always.' 

" '  Then  you  never  dealt  with  the  firm  of  Bugby  & 
Haynes?' 

"'Haynes  and  what  —  Bugby?  —  precious  ugly  name 
that.  No,  never  heard  of  'em;'  and  he  continued  his  read- 
ing and  I  my  writing — disappointed,  I  confess,  for  as  he 
had  remembered  Stultz,  it  was  not  likely  he  could  have 
forgotten  the  others.  In  a  minute  or  so  I  happened  to 
look  from  my  note  to  Sir  Roger,  who  had  closed  his  book 
and  seemed  absorbed  in  thought.  Then  he  said: 

"  '  What  names  did  you  say  ?' 

"I  repeated  them. 

" '  Well,'  said  he,  '  I  begin  to  have  a  faint  recollection 
of  some  such  people,  who  made  nothing  but  leather  breech- 
es, and — to  be  sure — I  remember  now  quite  well  being  sup- 
plied with  a  pair  when  I  was  stopping  with  Tyrrell  in  St. 
James's  Square.  Tyrrell  recommended  the  tailors,  and 
capital  breeches  they  were.  I  rode  more  than  fifteen 
hundred  miles  in  those  breeches,  and  then  they  were  not 
worn  out.' 


302  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

" '  Now,  sir,'  said  Captain  N to  me,  '  how  do  you 

get  over  that  ?' " 

I  confess  I  was  staggered,  but  subsequent  reflection  sup- 
plied an  explanation.  The  impostor  had  free  access — af- 
forded him  by  old  Lady  Tichborne — to  bills  and  papers  of 
every  description,  and  he  must  have  seen  the  account  for 
the  leather  breeches  among  them. 

Though  the  price  offered  me  for  painting  the  trial  of  the 
claimant  was  a  very  tempting  one,  I  declined  it;  and  it 
was  well  I  did,  for  my  intended  sitter  was,  very  soon  after 

my  interview  with  Captain  N" ,  picking  oakum  instead 

of  sitting  for  his  picture. 

Among  the  suggestions  for  the  employment  of  my  brush 
was  one  to  be  called  "  All  Over  but  the  Shouting."  This 
came  to  me  anonymously;  and  the  theme  was  to  be  a  crick- 
et-match at  Lord's — Harrow  and  Eton,  I  think.  I  was  ad- 
vised to  paint  the  end  of  the  game,  when  all  but  the  shout- 
ing is  supposed  to  be  over.  The  advantage  of  carriages 
full  of  ladies  getting  luncheon,  charming  young  Harrow 
boys  comparing  notes  with  octogenarian  Harrow  boys, 
cum  multis  aliis,  were  pointed  out  to  me  in  vain;  for  I 
neglected  this  well-meant  suggestion,  as  I  have  felt  com- 
pelled to  refuse  many  others. 

The  University  Boat-race  has  been  named  to  me  as  a 
good  subject  many  times,  and  in  a  sense  it  is  a  good  one; 
and  if  I  had  not  painted  the  "Derby  Day"  I  might  be 
tempted  to  try  it.  But  a  little  reflection  will  show  that 
the  incidents  on  the  river-banks  would  be  too  much  like 
those  at  Epsom  to  enable  one  to  avoid  the  odious  charge 
of  repetition. 

As  an  example,  not  only  of  the  kindness  of  the  people  in 
proposing  subjects,  but  also  of  their  suggestions  as  to  the 
way  in  which  the  pictures  arising  from  them  should  be 
painted,  I  subjoin  the  following  paragraphs,  which  reached 
me  exactly  as  they  are  reproduced: 

"  About  half  an  hour  before  the  start.  Hammersmith  Bridge  (as  large 
as  possible)  right  across  the  picture,  at  the  extreme  left." 

"  The  bridge,  with  its  wonderful  freight,  clearly  seen  from  the  Mall ; 
men  on  the  chains ;  carriages  of  every  description. 


REJECTED  SUBJECTS.  303 

"  A  steamboat  half  through  the  bridge,  decorated  with  small  flags,  and 
baring  on  board  a  band  playing,  and  passengers ;  the  funnel  lowered." 

"  A  boat  with  people  seated  in,  and  a  fat  woman  being  helped  in.  The 
boat  is  all  on  one  side  ;  the  apparent  fright  of  those  seated. 

"  Many  boats  are  by  the  Mall- wall  waiting  to  carry  people  to  the  barges. 

"  The  Thames  police-boat  clearing  the  way. 

"  Two  or  three  four-oared  crews  and  wager-boats.  Barges  with  people 
on  them. 

"  Steamers  and  barges  decorated  with  flags." 

"  The  houses  on  the  Mall,  namely, 

Bridge  House, 

Digby      " 

Beach      " 

Ashton    " 

Ivy  Cottage, 

Kent  House, 
would  all  come  out  admirably. 

"  The  Mall  to  be  widened  two  or  three  feet,  and  the  houses  that  slope 
back  to  be  brought  forward  as  far  as  the  public-house.  The  Mall  is  not 
crowded  until  just  before  the  race." 

"  Blue  and  red  cloth  along  the  balconies,  and  at  the  windows.  Lovely 
women  with  race-glasses  in  their  hands,  some  in  blue  silk. 

"  A  lovely  young  woman  in  balcony,  dressed  in  light  violet  velvet,  with 
a  beautiful  white  Maltese  dog  in  her  arms,  and  having  the  Oxford  ribbon 
round  his  neck ;  with  the  sun  shining  on  her  she  would  look  most  brill- 
iant" 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen  in  every  variety  of  clothing,  some  in  winter,  oth- 
ers in  summer;  numbers  of  children,  some  sitting  along  the  Mall-wall  with 
their  feet  nearly  touching  the  water. 

"Nigger  with  wooden  leg,  and  white  hat  with  wide  band  of  light  blue 
paper  round  it ;  he  is  carrying  his  fiddle. 

"  Girl  with  her  iutended ;  his  arm  round  her  waist.  Dog,  evidently 
lost." 

"  Two  sweeps  standing  together,  one  smoking  a  short  clay,  very  white, 
new  pipe,  and  the  other  filling  one,  each  with  Oxford  rosette  in  front  of 
his  cap. 

"  A  man  with  tin  can  selling  hot  meat-pics.  A  boy  has  just  bought  one, 
and  is  holding  it  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  looking  at  it  with  delight.  A 
man  standing  by  has  bitten  a  large  piece  out  of  one,  and  discovered  a  dead 
mouse,  which  he  is  holding  by  the  tail  between  his  fingers,  and  U  showing 
the  man  the  hole  it  came  out  of.  The  pieman  U  laughing ;  the  other  is 
in  a  rage." 


304  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Three  men  standing  together,  one  holding  a  pot  of  beer  in  pewter;  the 
other  two  are  tossing  to  see  who  is  to  pay.  One  is  holding  the  coin  tightly 
between  his  hands,  the  other  is  looking  doubtfully  at  a  coin  in  his  hand." 

"An  old  lady  in  Bath-chair.  A  little  rascal  is  trying  to  force  her  to  buy 
some  fusees,  putting  them  close  to  her  face.  A  girl,  on  the  other  side, 
trying  to  force  her  to  buy  colors ;  the  old  lady  looking  most  indignant ; 
her  attendant  is  talking  to  a  girl. 

"  A  young  swell  smoking  a  beautifully  colored  meerschaum  pipe,  with  a 
thief  on  each  side  of  him.  The  one  on  his  left  puts  both  his  hands  on  the 
swell's  shoulders,  and  is  laughing ;  the  swell  turns  his  head  to  see  the 
cause.  The  one  on  his  right  is  stealing  his  pin;  a  policeman  standing 
close  by  is  ordering  a  little  girl  to  move  on." 

"  An  old  gentleman  standing  near  the  houses,  who  has  been  robbed  of 
his  watch  ;  he  is  examining  the  ring  of  his  watch  which  is  left  on  his 
chain;  he  has  his  tortoise-shell  glasses  across  his  nose;  a  little  boy  is 
watching  him. 

"  A  girl  with  a  child  asleep  in  a  perambulator ;  boys  teasing  her. 

"  Gent  and  a  girl  standing  together,  the  girl  drinking  from  a  flask. 

"  Tall  soldier  with  his  short  girl." 

"  A  workman  standing  next  a  lady ;  the  smoke  from  his  pipe  blowing 
into  her  face ;  her  peculiar  expression. 

"  Girl  with  basket  of  buttonholes,  and  others  with  the  race  colors." 

If  I  were  to  expatiate  further,  and  give  other  examples 
of  the  propensity  for  proposing  subjects  to  known  painters, 
I  should  only  weary  my  readers.  None  but  painters  know 
the  extreme  difficulty  of  the  selection  of  a  moment  of 
time  that  shall  be  of  sufficient  interest  and  importance  to 
warrant  months,  and  perhaps  years,  being  spent  upon  a 
representation  of  it.  I  have  never  been  able  to  adopt  one 
of  the  innumerable  proposals  made  to  me.  Literary  men, 
who  should  know  better,  always  propose  subjects  that  are 
inexplicable,  unless  the  painter  could  adopt  the  method 
used  in  the  old  caricatures,  namely,  a  kind  of  balloon- 
shaped  form  coming  from  the  mouths  of  the  actors  in  the 
scene,  enclosing  the  words  they  are  supposed  to  be  saying. 
All  pictures  should,  as  a  rule,  tell  their  own  story  without 
the  aid  of  book  or  quotation,  though  in  some  instances,  no 
doubt,  quotation  is  necessary  for  the  understanding  of  the 
picture. 

My  contributions  to  the  Exhibition  of  1873  were  unim- 


REJECTED   SUBJECTS.  305 

portant,  consisting  of  the  "Lady  Archers,"  already  noted; 
a  modern  billiard  -  room,  with  two  ladies  playing,  and 
studies  of  French  and  English  flower-girls. 

"The  Procession  at  Boulogne"  then  occupied  my 
thoughts  and  time,  and  my  diary  records  my  struggles 
with  the  subject,  day  after  day,  till  the  time  for  "sending 
in"  in  1874.  I  fear  I  have  little  of  interest  to  relate  re- 
garding the  progress  of  that  work.  My  model  for  the 
principal  figure  was  the  Abb6  Toursel,  a  very  delightful 
old  priest,  who,  with  his  nephew,  proved  the  most  patient 
of  sitters;  and  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  other  good 
French  models. 

The  small  army  of  London  models  finds  many  Italians 
in  its  ranks,  and,  as  a  rule,  they  are  among  the  steadiest 
and  most  patient,  both  men  and  women;  but  Heaven  pre- 
serve me  from  the  boys  !  One  young  gentleman  took  great 
delight  in  tormenting  me  by  incessant  fidgeting,  pretend- 
ing to  go  to  sleep,  and  twisting  his  countenance  into  every 
conceivable  distortion.  Neither  coaxing  nor  bullying 
produced  any  effect.  He  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  my  com- 
plaints, remarking  on  one  occasion  that  he  was  glad  my 
picture  was  a  big  one,  otherwise  he  would  expect  it  to  be 
thrown  at  his  head,  as  "  Mr.  Poynter  threatened  the  other 
day."  The  best  thing  the  boy  did  for  me  was  to  bring 
me  his  uncle,  a  person  whose  occupation  in  his  own  coun- 
try had  been  that  of  a  brigand,  which  calling  he  had  pur- 
sued until  he  was  so  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  Italian  au- 
thorities that  a  sudden  absence  from  his  native  land  became 
imperative;  and  he  found  an  asylum  in  England,  and  em- 
ployment among  the  painters.  lie  was  an  amusing  fellow 
— making  no  secret  of  his  former  profession.  He  was 
forced  into  it,  he  said,  by  Garibaldi;  and,  in  reply  to  my 
inquiry  as  to  how  that  came  about,  he  informed  me  that 
he  was  in  the  Italian  army  when  the  King  of  Naples  was 
driven  off  by  the  Garibaldians;  and,  being  very  averse  to 
revolutionary  doings,  and  quite  determined  never  to  assist 
in  them,  he  and  several  of  his  comrades  took  to  the  moun- 
tains, where  they  had  a  very  happy  time.  My  friend  was 
a  good-looking  fellow — far  from  realizing  the  popular  idea 
of  a  brigand — though  he  made  a  capital  gendarme,  as  my 


306  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I 

picture  would  have  proved  if  an  unexpected  event  had  not 
put  a  stop  to  his  career  as  a  model,  and  very  nearly  to  his 
life. 

While  my  picture  of  him  was  in  progress  he  heard  of 
the  retirement  of  some  of  his  friends  from  the  mountains, 
and  their  successful  retreat  to  Paris,  from  whence  came  a 
warm  invitation  to  join  them  for  a  few  days. 

"My  expenses  to  be  paid,  you  know,  sir.  The  young 
Marquis  Napolini,  a  great  friend  of  mine,  was  one  of  us. 
He's  got  plenty  of  money.  Oh  !  that's  all  right." 

"And  how  long  shall  you  be  away  ?"  said  I. 

"  Only  two  tree  week." 

"  And  you  won't  forget  that  I  shall  want  more  sittings 
for  your  face  ?" 

"No;  all  right." 

But  matters  in  Paris  were  not  all  right.  For,  at  a  meet- 
ing of  the  brigands,  a  dispute  took  place,  and  the  young 
and  noble  Napolini,  being  of  a  choleric  nature,  and  unable 
to  relish  some  observations  of  my  model,  seized  a  bottle 
of  claret  and  struck  my  Italian  full  in  the  face  with  it. 
Some  weeks  were  passed  in  hospital,  that  fearful  nephew 
of  his  told  me  with  a  chuckle;  and  he  also  remarked  that 
it  was  his  opinion,  from  what  he  had  heard,  that  his  uncle 
would  not  be  of  use  as  a  model  any  more.  The  young 
wretch  was  right,  for,  when  my  brigand  appeared  after  his 
return,  I  certainly  should  not  have  recognized  in  the  bat- 
tered individual  before  me  the  jovial  fellow  who  went  to 
Paris  with  such  a  light  heart.  The  handsome  nose  that 
I  had  modelled  so  carefully  was  almost  gone,  and  the 
face  was  otherwise  frightfully  scarred  and  disfigured, 
so  I  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  seek  another  model  for 
my  gendarme. 

Whether  it  was  that  I  again  tried  to  do  too  much — for 
I  find  I  exhibited  four  other  pictures  (besides  painting 
small  matters)  in  the  Exhibition  of  1874 — or  from  some 
other  cause,  the  "Procession"  proved  far  less  successful 
than  I  expected. 

Though  I  cannot  agree  with  Dr.  Johnson  that  Richard- 
son is  a  greater  writer  than  Fielding,  I  am  a  great  admirer 
and  constant  reader  of  his  works,  and  had  always  a  desire 


REJECTED   SUBJECTS.  307 

to  try  my  hand  on  a  picture  of  "  Pamela,"  if  I  should  ever 
find  in  a  model  anything  approaching  the  beauty  that  is 
suggested  by  the  great  author  of  her  letters.  What  was 
my  surprise  and  delight  when,  on  visiting  an  artist,  my  old 
friend  Maw  Egley,  I  saw  in  his  studio  a  pretty  creature 
who  might  have  been  "  Pamela  "  herself  !  My  friend  was 
painting  a  picture  of  the  girl,  and,  in  reply  to  my  inquiry 
if  she  were  a  "  regular  model,"  I  was  told  that,  perhaps, 
she  might  be  induced  to  sit  for  me,  but  that  she  had  no 
intention  of  following  the  trade  of  model. 

She  came  to  me,  and  I  painted  a  picture  of  "  Pamela  " 
in  the  act  of  writing  one  of  her  home-letters.  She  was, 
and  is,  a  sweet  creature;  and,  though  now  married  and 
blessed  with  some  small  "  Pamelas,"  she  retains  much  of 
her  beauty. 

The  charms  of  my  model  tempted  me  to  paint  two  more 
pictures  from  her  —  one  of  which  was  called  "Wandering 
Thoughts;"  the  other,  "  Sleep." 

These  pictures  were  all  the  size  of  life;  and  I  contributed 
yet  another  life-size  work:  a  girl  at  her  devotions,  which  I 
christened  "  Prayer." 

"Pamela"  was  by  far  the  best  and  most  popular  of  the 
series;  indeed,  it  was,  and  I  fear  always  will  be,  the  best 
"  single-figure  picture  "  I  have  ever  done. 

In  speaking  of  my  principal  work  of  the  year  1874,1 
wish  to  record  the  kind  assistance  I  received  from  Cardinal 
— then  Archbishop — Manning.  The  subject  was  one  of 
great  interest  to  that  eminent  person;  and  I  am  indebted 
to  him  for  the  vestments,  robes,  mitres,  etc.,  indispensable 
for  the  production  of  the  picture. 

By  the  laws  of  the  Royal  Academy  all  members  are 
entitled  to  send  eight  pictures  to  any  of  the  annual  ex- 
hibitions. This  privilege  (of  which  I  trust  we  shall  soon 
deprive  ourselves)  is  not  often  claimed,  and,  whenever  it 
is  exacted,  the  result  is  nearly  always  as  unfortunate  for 
the  artist  as  it  is  for  the  public,  for  it  requires  the  genius 
of  a  Reynolds  or  a  Gainsborough  to  produce  eight  works 
in  one  year  that  shall  be,  one  and  all,  worthy  of  public 
scrutiny.  I  am  an  example  of  the  truth  of  what  I  say,  for 
in  the  year  1875  I,  for  the  first  and  I  hope  the  last  time 


308  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

in  my  life,  exhibited  eight  works.  And  those  worthy  of 
being  seen  might  certainly  have  been  counted  on  the  fin- 
gers of  one  hand — indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  there  would 
not  have  been  a  finger  or  two  to  spare  even  then.  A  very 
elaborate  and  careful  little  picture  of  "  Tom  Jones  "  show- 
ing "  Sophia  "  her  own  image  in  the  glass  as  a  pledge  of  his 
future  constancy  was  creditable  enough,  and  one  or  two 
of  the  rest — all  half-length,  life-sized  pictures — may  have 
been  what  is  called  "up  to  the  mark;"  but  I  cannot  say  as 
much  for  the  others,  which  showed  marks  of  such  haste 
and  incompleteness  as  should  never  be  allowed  to  appear 
in  any  work  intended  for  public  exhibition.  Quality,  and 
not  quantity,  should  be  the  guide  of  the  academic  con- 
tributors to  the  exhibition,  as  well  as  of  those  who  have 
the  selection  of  the  works  of  outsiders. 


CHAPTER  XXVHI. 

THE    PIOUS    MODEL. 

AMONG  the  ignorant — and  how  large  that  class  is  as  re- 
gards matters  of  art  it  would  be  impossible  to  calculate — 
the  idea  commonly  prevails  that  pictures  are  evolved  out 
of  the  painter's  inner  consciousness,  or,  in  other  words,  are 
created  out  of  nothing.  The  fact  that  nature  is  constant- 
ly referred  to,  that  for  the  most  trifling  detail  the  artist 
never  trusts  to  his  memory,  that  he  not  only  uses  models 
for  the  human  beings  which  may  fill  his  compositions,  but 
that  he  seeks  far  and  wide  for  the  smallest  object  to  be 
represented,  will  be  a  revelation  to  most  people.  That  be- 
ing so,  the  model  becomes  a  most  important  factor,  either 
as  a  human  being  or  a  detail,  to  all  painters;  and  the  diffi- 
culty of  discovering  the  needful  type  becomes  sometimes 
almost  impossible. 

If  I  may  presume  to  be  known  as  an  artist,  it  is  as  the 
painter  of  large  compositions,  such  as  the  "Derby  Day," 
the  "  Railway  Station,"  "  Ramsgate  Sands,"  etc.,  etc.,  and 
it  has  been  my  fate  to  undergo  much  tribulation  in  my 
search  after  material  in  various  forms.  During  the  execu- 
tion of  the  picture  of  "  Ramsgate  Sands,"  after  much 
search  I  found  an  individual  exactly  suited  to  my  purpose. 
My  servant  announced  a  visitor: 

"  A  person  of  the  name  of  Brcdman  has  called." 

"  Is  he  a  model  ?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Good-looking?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"Show  him  in." 

Mr.  Bredman  was  a  man  of  about  thirty,  dressed  in  a 
fustian  jncket  and  trousers  much  the  worse  for  wear;  a 
somewhat  heavy  countenance  with  strongly  marked  char- 


310  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

acter ;  a  serious,  indeed  solemn,  expression — in  fact,  the 
exact  type  I  had  sought  for.  I  engaged  him  immedi- 
ately, and,  though  he  had  never  sat  before,  I  found  him 
an  attentive  and  excellent  sitter. 

It  is  obvious  that  an  artist  must  talk  to  his  models  if 
he  expects  to  rouse  the  expression  necessary  for  his  work, 
and  it  is  also  obvious  that  conversation  becomes  difficult 
or  easy  according  to  the  intelligence  of  the  model.  I  found 
Bredman  far  above  the  average  of  the  ordinary  model. 
He  had  read  most  of  the  books  with  which  I  was  famil- 
iar, and  with  one  book,  the  most  important  of  all,  he 
showed  more  acquaintance,  I  am  sorry  to  confess,  than 
I  enjoyed  myself :  indeed,  he  surprised  me  by  producing 
a  Testament,  in  which  he  seemed  absorbed  during  the 
necessary  intervals  of  rest.  On  one  occasion,  I  remember, 
when  my  wife  brought  one  of  our  children  into  the  studio, 
Bredman's  solemn  face  brightened  pleasantly  as  he  took 
the  child  on  to  his,  not  very  satisfactory,  fustian  knee. 

"  You  seem  fond  of  children,"  said  my  wife. 

"  Well,  mum,  I  should  hope  so,"  said  Bredman.  "  Haven't 
we  got  an  example  here  ?"  tapping  the  Testament. 

"  Are  you  married  ?    Have  you  any  of  your  own  ?" 

"  I  am  married,  mum,  but  have  no  children  yet" 

The  peculiar  accent  on  the  word  "  yet "  impressed  me, 
and  in  the  course  of  our  work  I  asked  my  serious  friend 
if  he  had  hope  in  the  happy  direction  of  a  family. 

"  Well,  yes,  sir,  please  God,  before  very  long." 

Bredman  sat  to  me  many  times,  and  though,  as  I  said 
before,  he  was  familiar  with  many  subjects,  his  thoughts 
evidently  dwelt  most  on  the  most  serious  of  all ;  and  I 
found  that  he  was  convinced  that  he  was  in  what  he  called 
"  a  state  of  grace  " — that  he  was  one  of  the  elect,  in  fact. 
His  conversion  took  place  on  a  certain  day  in  June  at  a 
chapel  in  Tottenham  Court  Road  ;  at  a  special  instant  of 
time  his  sins  were  forgiven  ;  from  that  time  forward  he 
was  secure,  his  celestial  condition  was  sin-proof. 

"  And  I  only  wish,  sir,  you  was  in  the  happy  frame  of 
mind  as  I  have  felt  in  ever  since." 

Bredman's  affection  for  his  wife  seemed  very  strong. 
He  took  much  pleasure  in  telling  me,  in  reply  to  my  in- 


THE   PIOUS  MODEL.  311 

quiries  after  her,  that  "  It  couldn't  be  very  far  off ;"  and 
the  tears  often  came  into  his  eyes,  and  on  more  than  one 
occasion  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  when  he  drew  affecting 
pictures  of  the  danger  and  suffering  that  might  be  in  store 
for  her.  My  model  lived  somewhere  in  Southwark,  and 
on  a  tempestuous  night  in  December  he  rang  my  door- 
bell. It  was  late  ;  my  servants  had  gone  to  bed,  and  I 
was  about  to  follow,  when  the  bell  stopped  me.  On  open- 
ing the  door,  I  found  Bred  man  drenched  with  rain,  and 
in  a  terrible  state  of  mind.  The  event  had  taken  place 
unexpectedly  ;  no  preparation,  or  scarcely  any,  had  been 
made  ;  no  baby-clothes.  "  No  nothing  hardly,"  said  the 
weeping  man.  "  Would  Mrs.  Frith  look  him  out  some- 
thing ?"  The  doctor  said  the  poor  thing  must  have 
"  strengthening  things,  port  wine,"  etc.,  and  he  had  no 
means.  I  aroused  my  wife,  and  Bredman  left  with  a  bun- 
dle of  small  habiliments,  port  wine  not  being  forgotten. 
Our  sittings  continued,  and  each  morning  I  anxiously 
inquired  after  the  wife  and  child. 

"  The  doctor  is  very  kind,  sir,  very  attentive.  He  says 
she'll  pull  through,  he  thinks ;  but  she  is  very  bad,  and 
he  don't  know  if  the  child  will  live.  Oh  !  if  only  she  is 
saved,  how  truly  thankful  I  shall  be  !" 

I  had  recommended  the  man  as  a  model  to  several  of 
my  brother  artists,  among  the  rest  to  my  old  friend  Mr. 
Egg,  R.A. 

About  a  fortnight  after  Mrs.  Bredman's  confinement  I 
met  Mr.  Egg,  who  had  received  a  call  from  Bredman,  and 
an  appeal  for  assistance  in  similar  terms  to  those  he  had 
made  to  me.  Egg  was  a  bachelor,  so  baby-clothes  were 
impossible  ;  but  money  and  wine  were  supplied  abun- 
dantly. 

A  month  elapsed,  during  which  I  had  varying  accounts 
of  Mrs.  Bredman's  condition  from  her  husband.  More 
port  wine,  and  a  promise — which  did  not  seem  enthusias- 
tically received — that  Mrs.  Frith  would  go  to  Southwark 
as  soon  as  his  wife  was  well  enough  to  see  her. 

"  It's  such  a  poor  place,  you  know,  sir,  for  a  lady  to 
come  to  ;  and  the  poor  thing  is  so  weak  and  nervous,  the 
doctor  says  it  wouldn't  do — not  yet." 


312  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

.  I  think  six  weeks  had  passed  since  Bredman  had  been 
made  a  happy  father,  when  a  friend  of  mine,  a  Mr.  Bassett, 
who  had  frequently  seen  Bredman  sitting  to  me,  called 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  just  received  a  visit  from  my  model, 
in  great  distress  at  the  premature  confinement  of  his  wife 
— there  were  no  preparations,  no  baby-clothes,  and  so  on. 
Mr.  Bassett  was  not  provided  with  infant  habiliments,  but 
he  was  with  money  and  port  wine,  both  of  which  were 
gratefully  carried  off  by  my  pious  friend. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  when  the  event  took  place  ?"  asked  I. 

"  Yes," said  Bassett,  "  last  night  between  ten  and  eleven; 
and  he  would  have  come  to  me  then  if  it  hadn't  been  so 
late." 

What  a  very  extraordinary  woman  Mrs.  Bredman  must 
be !  thought  I.  It  then  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  de- 
sirable, in  the  interest  of  myself  and  friends,  that  I  should 
see  this  wonderful  woman.  Accordingly  I  lost  no  time 
in  wending  my  way  to  Southwark.  I  easily  found  Mr. 
Breclman's  lodging,  which,  as  he  said,  was  but  a  poor 
place.  There  was  a  perpendicular  row  of  bell-handles, 
and  I  pulled  one  after  another,  till  I  found  the  door  an- 
swered by  a  respectable-looking  woman. 

"  Does  Mr.  Bredman  live  here  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  he  is  not  at  home:  he  has  been  out  all 
day." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Bredman  in  ?" 

"Who,  sir?" 

"  Mrs.  Bredman." 

"  He  ain't  married  ;  there  ain't  no  Mrs.  Bredman.  He 
has  lodged  here  two  years  and  a  half,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
he  is  not  married.  Why,  he  is  that  cheerful  and  steady; 
always  in,  and  reading  of  an  evening,  when  he  ain't  play- 
ing with  my  children,  and  they  are  that  fond  of  him  !" 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  I  thank  you  ;  I  wish  you  good-evening." 

It  happened  that  my  regenerated  friend  was  engaged 
to  sit  for  me  the  morning  after  my  journey  to  Southwark, 
and  it  certainly  seemed  strange  that  his  landlady  had  said 
nothing  to  him  about  the  inquirer  after  Mrs.  Bredman ; 
that  such  was  the  case  was  evident  by  the  placid  uncon- 
cern with  which  my  model  fell  into  the  attitude  in  which 


I  Hi:    PIOUS   MODEL.  313 

he  may  be  seen  in  "Ramsgate  Sands,"  where  he  is  de- 
picted offering  a  "Tombola"  for  sale  to  an  old  woman 
who  will  none  of  it. 

"  Well,  Bredman,  how's  the  wife  ?" 

"  I  think  she'll  pull  through,  now,  sir.  She  felt  a  little 
faint  last  night ;  I  gave  her  some  of  your  port  wine,  and 
she  got  all  right.  I  hope  I  shall  always  remember  you 
and  Mrs.  Frith,  and  all  your  kindness." 

"  Did  you  taste  it  yourself,  Bredman  ?" 

"  Well,  I  won't  deceive  you,  sir ;  she  made  me  take  just 
a  drop,  and  it  was  that  good  !" 

"  And  the  baby — by  the  way,  is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?" 

"  A  boy,  sir.  He  rather  squints  just  now,  and  he  is  a 
little  yellow,  but  the  doctor  says  those  things  will  mend 
themselves." 

"  Doesn't  kneeling  like  that  tire  you  very  much  ?  Just 
rest  a  while." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  and  the  Testament  was  produced  as 
usual. 

"  Put  that  book  away,  Bredman;  I  don't  like  to  see  you 
handling  it  just  now." 

"  Ah,  sir,  if  only  you  would — ' 

"  Bredman,  do  you  know  what  the  punishment  is  for 
those  who  obtain  money  by  false  pretences  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  very  likely  to  know.  You  have  no 
wife  and  no  child  ;  you  have  obtained  clothes  and  money 
from  me,  from  Mr.  Egg,  Mr.  Bassett,  and  probably  from 
others,  and  you  richly  deserve —  Now,  what  have  you 
got  to  say  for  yourself?" 

In  an  instant  the  man  was  sobbing,  the  tears  pouring 
down  his  face.  He  evidently  couldn't  speak  for  some 
moments.  Ho  then  looked  up  with  an  expression  on  his 
face  quite  new  to  me,  and  he  said : 

"  I  am  an  infernal  rogue,  ain't  I  ?" 

"  You  are,"  said  I.  "  Now  get  out  of  my  room,  and 
never  let  me  see  your  face  again  !" 

The  man's  character  became  too  well  known  in  the  pro- 
fession for  the  calling  of  model  to  be  any  longer  possible 
for  him,  and  strange  as  it  may  appear,  though  his  career 
14 


314  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

as  a  hypocritical  knave  was  well  known  to  us,  a  sufficient 
sum  was  subscribed  by  artists  to  enable  him  to  go  to  Aus- 
tralia. He  found  his  way  to  the  diggings,  which  were  in 
full  swing  at  that  time ;  and  I  received  a  grateful  letter 
from  him,  still  in  my  possession,  in  which  he  informed 
me  he  was  prospering,  and  he  hoped  helping  the  good 
cause  by  the  sale  of  religious  works  in  a  store  at  Ballarat. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

VISIT   TO    ITALY. 

IN  the  early  days  of  the  study  of  art  in  this  country  it 
was  thought  so  necessary  for  the  student  to  go  to  Italy, 
where  the  finest  pictures  were  supposed  to  be  plentiful 
and  easy  of  access,  that  special  advantages  were  offered 
to  those  who  had  gained  gold  medals  in  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy to  enable  students  with  slender  purses  to  spend  two 
years  abroad.  In  those  days  we  had  no  National  Gallery, 
and,  no  doubt,  Italy  contained  treasures  which  have  since 
found  their  way  to  this  country.  However  that  may  be, 
a  visit  that  I  paid  to  Italy — in  the  year  at  which  these 
reminiscences  have  arrived — convinced  me  that,  with  the 
exception  of  Florence,  the  student  will  seek  in  vain  for 
works  of  the  Old  Masters  to  be  compared  for  a  moment 
with  those  of  our  own  in  the  National  Gallery. 

We  are  students  to  the  end  of  our  days,  but  it  is  not  in 
our  juvenescent  period  that  we  can  appreciate  the  works 
of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo.  Those  giants  put  forth 
their  full  strength  in  Rome,  and,  if  that  city  be  visited  at 
all,  it  should  be  at  a  time  when  the  mind's  eyes  have  been 
opened  by  long  study  and  experience.  As  a  proof  of  this 
it  may  be  remembered  that  even  so  great  a  genius  as  Rey- 
nolds— who  saw  the  Sistine  Chapel  and  the  frescoes  in  the 
Vatican  when  he  was  but  a  tyro — confesses  to  his  disap- 
pointment and  wonder  at  the  reputation  of  Michael  An- 
gelo ;  though  he  lived  to  be  thankful  that  he  could  fully 
appreciate  that  great  man,  of  which  he  gave  a  touching 
proof  in  the  last  of  his  lectures  to  the  students  at  the 
Royal  Academy,  the  closing  words  of  which  were  the  name 
of  Michael  Angelo. 

Some  letters  written  by  me  during  my  visit  to  Italy  have 
been  preserved,  and  I  propose  to  quote  largely  from  them, 


316  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

as  they  will  be  found,  among  other — I  trust  amusing — 
descriptive  matter,  to  contain  opinions  on  art  carefully 
formed,  and  still  unaltered. 

My  wife  and  two  daughters  accompanied  me,  and  we 
put  ourselves  in  the  care  of  the  best  of  couriers.  Our  route 
lay  through  Paris  to  Marseilles,  from  whence  I  write  : 

"  Marseilles  is  a  wonderful  place.  We  seemed  to  have  arrived  at  the 
blue  sky  and  heat  of  Italy.  The  Mediterranean  so  blue — but  not  so  blue 
as  it  is  always  painted — and  on  the  shores  of  it  every  conceivable  type  of 
human  being  except  the  English  :  I  saw  not  one  yesterday.  Such  fellows ! 
Greeks,  Turks,  Spaniards — in  fact,  types  of  every  nation  under  the  sun. 
And  then,  the  Marseilles  women,  though  seldom  pretty,  and  with  no  special 
costume  to  mark  them,  are  full  of  character.  I  saw  the  flower-girls  that 

A talks  of,  but  there  is  nothing — except  that  they  sit  in  a  kind  of 

nest  under  an  awning,  which  is  picturesque  enough — to  distinguish  them 
from  other  flower-girls  ;  and  there  was  not  a  pretty  one  among  them.  This 
place  is  a  second  Paris  on  a  small  scale.  Splendid  streets,  boulevards 
with  arcades  of  linden-trees — the  shade  from  which  will  be  required  in 
summer — incessant  jingling  of  horse-bells,  peculiar  cries,  and  still  more 
peculiar  smells." 

"  NICE,  April  6. 

"We  left  Marseilles  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  passed  through  some 
lovely  country  to  reach  this  place.  Whether  it  was  that  my  fellow-travel- 
lers were  over-fatigued  (one  being  quite  ill)  to  take  interest  in  it,  I  can't 
tell ;  but  I  could  get  only  a  languid  look  up  from  Miss  Braddon  or  Wilkie 
Collins  when  I  appealed  to  them  to  admire  the  mountains  of  Savoy,  whose 
snowy  tops  were  just  receiving  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun — wonder- 
fully like  the  best  scenery  of  an  opera !  There  are  those  pine-trees  that 
grow  to  a  good  height  and  then  terminate  in  a  round,  black,  bushy  top — 
so  often  reproduced  by  Turner  and  others.  And  the  rocks  and  hills  in  the 
uncertain,  silvery,  misty  light  of  evening  looking  so  like  what  in  theatrical 
phrase  are  termed  flats,  as  if,  at  a  whistle  of  a  man  at  the  wings,  they  could 
be  slid  along. 

"  We  arrived  at  Nice  just  as  evening  changed  into  night,  and  were  de- 
posited at  a  charming  hotel  facing  the  Mediterranean,  with  geraniums  in 
full  bloom,  and  palms  and  cacti  growing  in  profusion  from  the  front  down 
to  the  sea.  I  stepped  from  the  window  on  to  a  broad  marble  balcony — 
the  sky  so  clear  and  pure,  the  stars  seeming  brighter  and  nearer  than  at 
home,  to  a  degree  that  our  distance  from  England  did  not  seem  to  account 
for.  The  night  was  most  lovely,  and,  though  there  was  no  moon,  I  fancied 
I  could  see  miles  over  the  sea.  Just  as  I  was  turning  to  go  back  to  the 
dining-room,  a  clear  ringing  voice  from  below  struck  up  the  hymn  to  the 
Virgin.  How  perfectly  the  music  seemed  in  harmony  with  the  scene ! 
Only  a  strongish  flight  of  poetic  fancy  was  required  to  induce  one  to  be- 
lieve that  the  lovely  tones  of  the  '  Ave  Maria '  reached  the  stars  that  seemed 


VISIT  TO   ITALY.  317 

"  '  It  is  a  blind  Italian  woman,  sir,'  said  the  waiter.  '  She  always  comes 
on  Sundays  to  sing  the  Evening  Hymn.  Dinner  ia  ready.' 

"Fancy  waking  next  morning  and  finding  the  beautiful  bay  as  foggy  as 
London,  a  pelting  rain  falling,  and  the  sky — when  you  could  see  it — as 
unpromising  as  it  could  well  be.  For  the  present,  getting  out  was  out  of 
the  question.  In  the  afternoon  the  weather  cleared  a  little,  and  we  drove 
through  Nice  and  on  to  the  hills  that  envelop  and  environ  it,  from  the  top 
of  which  you  take  in  the  whole  panorama  of  Nice,  with  the  two  horns  of 
its  crescent  form  stretching  far  out  into  the  Mediterranean.  Villas  of 
every  possible  and  impossible  form  nestled  among  pine  and  olive  trees, 
castellated  whims  of  idiotic  Englishmen,  Gambart'a  marble  palace,  magnif- 
icent hotels,  and  long  rows  of  houses  and  shops — not  so  very  unlike  East- 
bourne— make  up  the  brick  and  mortar  of  the  scene,  and  have  done  their 
best,  or  their  worst,  to  spoil  the  glorious  handiwork  of  Nature." 

"  April  7. 

"  Yesterday  we  went  to  Monaco,  where  I  saw  Ilomburg  in  little,  Rouge 
et  Noiron  its  last  legs — black  legs — a  very  languid  affair  compared  to  what 
I  remember  it  in  Germany ;  the  rooms  small  and  tawdry  compared  with 
the  Salon  d'Or.  But  Monaco,  with  its  delicious  gardens  overhanging 
the  sea,  lovely  beyond  description  !  The  place  is  heaven,  with  a  hell  in  the 
midst  of  it.  As  to  his  altitude  the  prince  of  that  little  country,  he  had 
best  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  fur  the  time  will  soon  come  when  the 
gates  of  his  infernal  region  will  be  closed  and  the  devils  shut  up.  The 
existence  of  this  monarch,  with  his  little  kingdom  and  his  little  army — the 
whole  affair  a  kind  of  doll's  house!  The  capital  is  perched  on  a  lovelv 
hill ;  the  streets  being  but  narrow  passages,  many  of  them  impassable  for 
carriages,  and  in  none  could  one  carriage  pass  another.  And  then  the  wee 
soldiers — tawdry  with  blue  and  gold,  with  their  little  cocked-hats  done  up 
in  oilskin,  marching  about  like  bantams  and  keeping  sentry  over  nothing 
at  all — are  supremely  ridiculous,  and  would  be  passed  with  a  shrug  ami  a 
smile  if  they  did  not  assist  to  keep  up  what  is  a  scandal  to  Europe.  Bis- 
marck is  wanted. 

"  We  dined  at  the  hotel  at  Monte  Carlo,  wolfish  women  sitting  opposite 
to  us,  whose  gambling  we  had  watched,  and  whose  hunger  was  as  ravenous 
as  their  way  of  satisfying  it  was  revolting.  As  we  left  the  place  at  eight 
o'clock,  on  our  return  to  Nice,  trains  were  depositing  scores  of  gamblers 
whose  eager  rush  to  the  room  w:is  awful  to  see.  I  must  not  quit  Nice 
without  an  effort  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  house  in  which  my  old  friend 
Gambart  is  passing,  if  not  the  evening,  the  afternoon  of  a  prosperous  life. 
You  must  try  to  figure  for  yourself  the  kind  of  place  described  in  the 
1  Lady  of  Lyons ' — '  a  palace  lifting  to  eternal  summer  its  marble  walls 
from  out  of  groves '  of  so-and-so  '  musical  with  birds ' — and  you  will  arrive 
at  an  idea  of  Gambart's  place,  barring  the  birds.  It  is  a  long,  two-storied 
building  of  purest  white  marble,  with  statues  on  the  top  relieved  against 
the  sky ;  exquisite  in  proportion  and  in  taste,  outside  and  in.  The  rooms, 
lofty  and  light,  filled,  but  not  overcrowded,  with  pictures,  sculptures,  china, 
and  the  rest  of  it.  We  had  luncheon  in  harmony  with  the  surroundings, 


318  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

rare  Venetian  glass,  pretty  to  look  at,  but  awkward  to  drink  from  ;  though 
what  was  in  the  glass  was  as  rare  as  the  glass  itself.  Baron  Gudin,  the 
marine  painter,  was  there ;  he  gave  me  a  very  high-flown  and  eulogistic 
reception,  and  showed  unmistakable  symptoms  of  an  intention  of  kissing 
me.  I  am  glad  he  didn't  proceed  to  that  dreadful  extremity,  for  I  must 
have  submitted.  Neither  my  pen  nor  my  pencil  could  do  justice  to  Gam- 
bart's  palace.  He  has  groves  of  olive-trees,  miles  of  palm- walks  (the  estate 
is  called  Les  Palmiers),  masses  of  orange-trees — the  fruit  of  which,  ripe  in 
April,  is,  to  my  taste,  inferior  to  the  two-a-penny  oranges  in  London — and 
every  variety  of  flowers  in  almost  tropical  luxuriance.  '  These  were  in 
their  full  beauty  in  January,'  he  says,  'but  are  now  going  off  a  little.' 
Think  of  that  state  of  things  in  Nice,  and  London  in  January !  Here,  high 
above  the  sea,  and  from  a  terrace  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  you  get  a 
view  of  the  bay  and  the  whole  of  Nice  such  as,  I  imagine,  the  whole  world 
cannot  surpass.  To-day  we  take  the  famous  drive  along  the  Cornice  Road 
to  St.  Remo,  and  to-morrow  to  Genoa." 

"  GENOA,  April  10. 

"  We  left  Nice  on  Wednesday,  and  arrived  at  St.  Remo,  our  first  Italian 
stopping-place,  in  the  evening,  after  the  most  wonderful  drive  in  the  world 
along  the  famous  Cornice  Road — no  pen  nor  tongue  can  give  an  idea  of  the 
beauty  of  it.  After  leaving  Nice  we  were  nearly  two  hours  ascending  the 
mountains,  a  high  stone  wall  to  the  right  of  us,  and  to  the  left  mountain 
after  mountain,  now  close  upon  us,  then  rearing  themselves  in  shadowy 
distance ;  valley  after  valley,  sometimes  on  our  level,  sometimes  far  down 
below.  Now  the  road  wound  round  the  summit  of  a  hill,  with  only  a  low 
parapet  to  protect  you  from  a  precipice  a  thousand  feet  deep.  Then  you 
turned  suddenly,  and  found  the  blue  Mediterranean  to  vary  the  scene. 
What  effects  of  light  and  shadow  on  the  landscape !  the  scattered  houses 
looking  like  toys  so  far  below,  then  mile  after  mile  of  olive-trees  and  won- 
derful Eastern-looking  patches  of  date  and  palm  trees.  It  was  a  scene  to 
be  remembered — and  what  a  feeble  idea  I  have  given  you  of  it ! 

"  We  stopped  to  rest  at  Mentone — a  close,  stifling  place,  much  favored 
by  invalids.  I  think  the  finest  view  of  all  was  from  the  hill,  after  leaving 
Mentone,  on  the  top  of  which  is  the  Italian  custom-house.  Never  can  !• 
forget  the  look  back.  Mentone  stretches  far  into  the  sea  at  the  base  of  a 
mountain  of  magnificent  form  ;  this  is  repeated  by  still  grander  mountain- 
shapes,  piled  one  upon  another  till  they  are  lost  in  distance.  Some  were 
snow-topped,  and  the  summits  of  others  seemed  suspended  in  air,  from 
the  effect  of  clouds  which  lay  in  misty  volume  across  them.  The  sun  now 
and  again  lightened  up  distant  valleys,  or  glinted  for  a  moment  across  the 
mountain-sides.  The  day  was  slightly  cloudy,  and  very  favorable  for  see- 
ing variety  of  effect ;  and  I  fully  appreciated  it.  We  stayed  the  night  at 
St.  Remo— a  lovely  spot — and  then  started  for  Genoa  on  a  tedious,  but 
grand,  journey  by  rail  along  the  sea  to  this  city  of  palaces,  where  we  ar- 
rived in  the  evening." 

"PiSA,  April  12. 

"  We  only  stayed  one  night  in  Genoa — a  place  full  of  interest,  and  the 
first  at  which  I  found  fine  pictures — only  a  few  of  them,  but  those  few 


VISIT  TO    ITALY.  310 

how  splendid!  The  Via  Nuora  and  Nuovissima  arc  composed  of  the 
palaces  of  the  old  and  modern  nobility — very  few  of  the  former  are  left 
The  palaces  where  the  Dorias,  the  Balbis,  and  the  Spinolas  lived  and  plotted 
are  caffs  or  photographic  establishments.  So,  instead  of  love-iiiunmr..-, 
or  the  interchange  of  a  look  or  a  rapid  word  that  devoted  a  rival  to  perdi- 
tion, you  have  the  rattle  of  billiard-balls  and  the  smell  of  collodion.  The 
streets  are  so  narrow  between  these  palaces  that  two  carriages  can  barely 
pass.  There  is  no  foot-pavement,  and  how  people  arc  not  frequently  run 
over  amazes  me ;  but  the  high  doorways  and  the  massive  doors  !  and  the 
courtyards,  inner  court  after  inner  court,  till  you  arrive  at  marble  staircases 
guarded  by  marble  animals,  intended,  probably,  for  lions — bigger  than  any 
real  lions  in  the  world.  And  when  you  are  at  the  top  of  the  stairs — and 
'  such  a  getting  up-stairs '  it  is — you  find  yourself  in  rooms  with  decorations 
unlike  anything  you  ever  saw ;  and  here  and  there  pictures  by  Vandyke, 
painted  by  that  young  gentleman  when  he  was  a  guest,  perhaps  in  the  very 
rooms  in  which  you  stand,  and  placed  by  him  on  the  walls,  in  the  frames 
in  which  you  find  them.  What  would  those  splendid  swells — who  look  as 
if  they  were  born  to  command  the  world — say  if  they  could  see  the  uses  to 
which  their  homes  have  come  at  last  ?  Most  of  the  Genoese  Vandykes 
have  been  sold  and  removed ;  but  in  the  Pallavacini  Palace  there  are  several 
as  fine,  or  finer,  than  any  I  have  seen,  together  with  Italian  and  Spanish 
pictures  of  great  beauty.  The  Academy  of  Arts,  in  which  two  or  three 
melancholy  students  were  drawing,  was  a  dismal  business.  The  place  was 
filled  with  bad  pictures  of  the  modern  Italian  school. 

"  We  were  taken  through  all  the  schools.  In  the  Life  School  there  was 
the  stuffy,  hot  feeling  I  know  so  well — indeed,  except  that  the  room  is 
much  smaller  than  that  nt  Burlington  House,  I  could  have  fancied  myself 
there. 

"The  churches  are,  of  course,  splendid  in  Genoa  and  everywhere  else, 
but  those  we  have  seen  up  to  the  present  writing  have  contained  no  note- 
worthy pictures ;  and,  as  their  other  attractions  were  no  attractions  to  me, 
I  confess  I  was  anxious  to  avoid  them — partly  on  account  of  the  risk  of 
cold  to  my  party — as  our  courier  was  determined  I  should  not  miss  one 
if  he  could  help  it.  Many  fights  we  had  on  the  church  question,  but  I  was 
nearly  always  conqueror. 

"  We  intended  to  have  driven  round  Genoa  the  morning  we  left,  but  the 
rain  was  incessant ;  and  for  the  last  few  days  we  have  had  fires,  and  I 
have  been  glad  of  a  great-coat.  I  therefore  know  nothing  of  the  splendor 
of  the  bny,  about  which  I  have  heard  so  much,  except  what  I  saw  of  it  as 
we  came  in  by  rail.  The  railway  journeys  are  lovely,  so  far — that  from 
Genoa  to  Pisa  surpassing  everything.  The  Gulf  of  Spezzia,  where  Shelley 
was  drowned,  the  Carrara  marble  mountains,  and  the  whole  route,  form  a 
variety  of  pictures  never  to  be  forgotten.  We  saw  the  leaning  tower  of 
Pisa  and  the  group  of  buildings  near  it  in  the  evening  light,  but  reached 
Pisa  too  late  to  visit  them  till  yesterday  morning.  I  wish  I  could  give  you 
an  idea  of  the  old-world  look  of  the  things.  They  stand  together — the 
cathedral,  the  tower,  and  the  Campo  Santo — alone,  silent,  but  how  elo- 
quent !  I  have  never  before  seen  any  building  that  conveyed  to  me  so 


320  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

complete  a  sense  of  what  may  be  called  the  '  atmosphere  of  dead  centu- 
ries'  that  seemed  to  encompass  them — grave  and  dignified,  without  the 
least  thing  in  common  with  the  present  time." 

"  ROME,  April  14. 

"  We  arrived  here  at  seven  to-night,  and  all  I  have  seen  of  Home  was 
in  a  drive  through  some  streets,  which  are  exactly  like  those  of  any  sec- 
ond-rate French  town  —  the  same  jingling  of  horse-bells,  the  same  tall 
houses  with  green  window-shutters,  more  French  than  Italian  names  on 
the  shops — in  fact,  French  all  over.  I  could  see  the  Pincian  Hill  from 
my  window  at  the  Hotel  Russie  if  it  were  not  too  dark — so  says  the  land- 
lord, who  looks  and  talks  like  an  English  duke. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  places  we  have  yet  seen  is  Pisa.  The  Arno, 
a  muddy,  yellow  stream,  runs  through  it,  and  our  hotel  was  on  the  bank. 
On  looking  out  of  window,  on  the  night  of  our  arrival,  we  saw  a  quaint 
line  of  Italian  buildings,  consisting  of  churches,  palaces,  tall  campanili — a 
beautifully  broken,  irregular  architectural  line,  relieved  darkly  against  a 
glorious  evening  sky.  An  oddly-shaped,  angular  house  was  one  of  these, 
and,  on  inquiry  next  day  as  we  drove  past  it,  I  was  informed  it  was  the 
Palazzo  Ugolino. 

" '  And  there,  sir,'  said  the  driver,  '  is  the  count.' 

"Every  one  knows  Reynolds'  '  Ugolino,'  that  grim  old  man,  sitting  hun- 
gry— or  perhaps  past  hunger — waiting  for  death,  with  his  children  about 
him,  in  the  Torre  de  Fame  at  Pisa.  I  turned  round  and  had  a  good  look 
at  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  starved  old  count,  and  beheld  a  small, 
good-looking  dandy,  with  a  little  black  mustache,  smoking  a  long,  thin 
Italian  cigar ;  his  cloak  thrown  over  his  shoulder  in  the  assassin  fashion 
common  in  these  parts,  and  walking  as  the  Italian  youth  is  prone  to  move, 
like  a  theatrical  supernumerary  who  has  either  just  committed  a  murder 
behind  the  scenes  or  is  on  his  way  to  do  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  way  of  pictures  at  Pisa.  Those  at  the  Campo 
Santo,  though  interesting,  could  never  have  been  fine  frescoes,  and  are 
now  all  but  destroyed. 

"  The  next  evening  found  us  at  Siena,  after  a  railway  journey  passing, 
as  usual,  through  fine  scenery,  if  we  could  have  seen  it ;  but  there  was  a 
continuous  downpour,  causing  mists  which  obscured  our  views  with  provok- 
ing pertinacity.  But,  from  glimpses  of  mountain  and  valley,  I  have  no 
doubt  a  fine  day  would  have  revealed  great  beauties.  Of  all  the  filthy 
places  to  stop  at  —  how  much  more  to  live  in  —  commend  me  to  Siena. 
Never  can  I  forget  the  drive  through  those  narrow,  sloppy  streets,  the  tall, 
black  houses  overhanging  and  choking  one,  through  street  after  street,  till 
we  stopped  at  a  dark,  low-roofed  entry,  and  were  told  we  had  arrived  at 
our  inn.  Great  Heaven  !  "What  a  place  to  stop  at!  We  walked  up  the 
wet,  dirty,  uneven  flagstones,  escorted  by  a  little  brigand-like  landlord,  to 
a  cavernous  staircase,  so  dark  that  it  required  a  dull  oil-lamp  even  in  day- 
light to  direct  the  feet  of  us  miserable  guests  up  a  honeycombed  marble 
staircase  till  we  reached  a  great,  rambling,  dirty  sitting-room,  with  chairs 
BO  hard  that  it  was  a  positive  relief  to  stand.  And  the  bedrooms— oh,  the 


VISIT   TO   ITALY.  321 

bedrooms  '.—mine  looked  as  if  forty  murders  had  been  committed  in  it. 
Our  dismayed  faces,  after  the  comforts  of  Pisa,  may  be  imagined.  '  We 
won't  stop !  Nothing  should  induce  us !'  and  so  on.  But  we  soon  found 
Siena  was  our  master,  for  the  other  inns  were,  if  possible,  worse ;  and, 
what  was  worst  of  all,  we  could  not  leave  for  Rome  till  Wednesday,  for  the 
train  left  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  it  was  now  seven  at  night  —  and 
4  there  is  so  much  to  see  in  Siena,  signer.'  So  we  ate  our  dirty  dinner, 
waited  upon  by  the  dirtiest  waiter  eyes  ever  beheld,  and  went  to  bed  on 
straw  mattresses,  which  made  a  horrible  noise  when  we  moved.  I  was 
awakened  at  two  in  the  morning  by  a  series  of  hollow  groans  coming  from 
the  room  next  to  mine,  like  the  last  signs  of  life  in  a  man  being  murdered. 
I  sat  up  in  bed  and  simply  said  to  myself,  'That  is  a  queer  noise!'  when 
it  was  repeated  with  additions  and  improvements.  I  soon  became  awake 
to  the  fact,  which  was  that  my  neighbor  had  a  bad  attack  of  nightmare ; 
and  I  don't  know  which  disturbance  was  the  worse,  the  nightmare  or  the 
finale  to '  Lucia,'  to  which  he  treated  me  as  I  was  dressing  in  the  morning. 
After  a  dirty  breakfast,  served  by  the  dirty  waiter,  we  sallied  forth  to  the 
cathedral,  which  repaid  us  to  some  extent  for  the  discomfort  we  had  en- 
dured. It  is  truly  magnificent,  with  its  wealth  of  ornament,  its  lovely  in- 
laid marbles  and  mosaics.  It  is  built  of  black  and  white  marble  in  alter- 
nate layers,  so  the  effect  of  the  columns  is  something  like  a  lady's  black- 
and-white-barred  stocking,  not  altogether  pleasing  to  my  eye. 

"  The  school  of  painting  in  Siena  was  one  of  the  most  famous  in  Italy. 
In  the  Academy  there  was  a  large  collection  of  what  Flatow  called  'the 
Chamber-of-Horror  pattern,'  not  half  so  good  as  ours  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery, and  some  of  it  with  little  more  pretension  to  be  classed  as  real  art 
than  that  of  Japan  or  China.  But  in  one  of  the  churches  there  is  an  ex- 
quUitc  Crucifixion  by  Perugino,  Raphael's  master  ;  and  the  library  of  the 
cathedral  is  decorated  with  frescoes  by  Pintoricchio,  a  friend  and  fellow- 
pupil  of  Raphael's.  These  are  wonderful  works,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  felt  the  full  beauty  of  fresco:  this  sensation  to  be  strengthened 
and  confirmed  to  its  utmost  extent  by  what  I  saw  by  Raphael  in  Rome. 
There  are  no  doubt  some  very  picturesque  buildings  in  Siena,  notably  the 
town-hall  in  the  great  piazza,  with  its  thin,  tall  tower,  and  lots  of  churches 
filled  with  wretched  pictures  ;  but  he  who  misses  Siena  will  not  miss  much 
besides  dirt  and  discomfort.  IIow  glad  I  was  to  find  myself  spinning 
along  through  exquisite  scenery  on  the  brightest  of  bright  mornings,  leav- 
ing Siena  behind,  and  having  Rome  in  front !  Never,  to  my  last  day,  shall 
I  forget  the  first  sight  of  Rome,  or,  rather,  of  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  on 
the  horizon,  marking  the  place  of  the  Eternal  City." 

"RoHK,  April  18,  1875. 

"  My  head  is  in  such  confusion  from  all  I  have  seen  in  Rome  that  I 
shall  find  it  difficult  to  convey  to  you  any  of  the  wonders  of  the  place. 
Modern  Rome  is  a  huge  French  town,  less  Italian  than  Pisa  or  Siena  a 
great  deal.  But  ancient  Rome,  or,  rather,  the  ruins  of  it — what  can  I  say 
of  them  that  has  not  been  much  better  said  already  ?  It  is  impossible  to 
give  a  notion  of  the  sensations  that  take  possession  of  you  on  the  first 
14* 


322  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

sight  of  the  Forum,  with  its  triumphal  arch  and  its  time-mouldered  col- 
umns, the  Via  Sacra  running  through  it,  paved  with  the  very  slabs  of  rough 
stone,  unlike  in  shape  and  color  to  anything  in  the  world,  over  which  poured 
the  thousands  thronging  to  the  bloody  shows  at  the  Coliseum ! 

"  It  must  be  a  dull  imagination  indeed  that  does  not  repair  the  broken 
seats,  replace  the  enormous  awning,  and  see  the  row  upon  row  of  passion- 
ate eyes  watching  the  struggle  of  the  gladiators,  or  enjoying  with  brutal 
pleasure  the  sufferings  of  the  Christians.  Certainly  if  the  Christians  suf- 
fered eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  they  have  much  the  best  of  it  now ;  for, 
instead  of  worshipping  in  secret  catacombs,  they  are  now  housed  in  such 
'  poems  in  stone '  as  prove,  in  their  absolute  perfection,  the  hopelessness 
of  rivalry,  and  go  far  to  reconcile  us  (in  the  impossibility  of  excelling  these 
works  of  the  mighty  dead)  to  the  constant  reproduction  of  them  by  mod- 
ern architects. 

"  I  think  I  may  safely  assert  that  there  are  more  bad  pictures  in  Rome 
than  in  any  city  in  the  world.  The  good  pictures  may  be  counted  on  your 
ten  fingers,  always  excepting  the  works  of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo ; 
indeed,  I  doubt  if  I  have  seen  ten,  though  I  have  visited  so  many  palaces 
inhabited  by  the  descendants  of  the  Colonnas,  Dorias,  Farnesi,  Cenci,  and 
the  rest  of  them ;  but  then  the  ten  are  magnificent.  In  one  palace,  the 
Farnesina,  there  is  a  gallery  filled  with  Raphael's  frescoes ;  in  another 
the  '  Sacred  and  Profane  Love,'  by  Titian,  perhaps  the  finest  picture  in  the 
world;  a  splendid  portrait  of  a  villainous-looking  pope,  by  Velasquez;  a 
'  Danae,'  by  Correggio,  his  best  work  out  of  Parma ;  and  a  few  works  of 
the  Italian  school. 

"  We  went  yesterday  to  a  monastery  to  see  a  lot  of  mouldering  remains 
of  lamps,  spoons,  broken  armor,  etc.,  said  to  be  contemporary  with  the 
Caesars,  the  ruins  of  whose  palace  still  exist  in  huge,  ugly  masses,  round 
which  the  east  wind  blew  with  an  icy  sharpness  in  April,  unsurpassable 
on  a  winter's  day  in  the  Highlands.  I  think  I  have  seen  more  villainous 
faces  in  Rome  than  I  ever  saw  before,  both  in  men  and  women — the  for- 
mer look  as  if  they  would  gladly  cut  your  throat  for  sixpence,  and  the  lat- 
ter as  if  they  would  assist  in  the  operation.  The  graves  of  Keats  and 
Shelley,  which  we  saw  yesterday,  are  tenderly  cared  for. 

"  I  had  two  delightful  hours  this  afternoon  alone  with  Michael  Angelo 
and  Raphael  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  and  the  Vatican.  I  left  the  place  fully 
persuaded  that  the  two  men  were  superhuman,  unrivalled,  and  forever  un- 
approachable. The  study  of  their  works  ends  in  the  conviction  that  the 
painters  implicitly  believed  in  the  divine  truth  of  the  themes  they  illus- 
trated— nothing  else,  notwithstanding  their  God-gifted  geniu.*,  could  have 
inspired  them  ;  and,  difficult  as  it  is  to  believe  that  Raphael  really  took  it 
for  granted  that  saints,  armed  with  long  swords,  appeared  in  the  sky  at  a 
moment  when  fortune  was.  going  against  one  of  the  popes  in  battle,  and  so 
turned  the  tables  on  his  enemies,  I  think  the  assumption  must  be  allowed." 

"  NAPLES,  April  23. 

"We  left  Rome  on  Wednesday,  and  at  a  distance  of  at  least  fifty  miles 
from  Naples,  Vesuvius  loomed  upon  us;  more  gigantic,  and  in  all  ways 


VISIT  TO   ITALY.  323 

grander,  than  we  expected.  The  smoke  from  the  cone  looked  at  first  like 
a  little  white  cloud  resting  on  the  summit;  but  a  nearer  approach  showed 
us  its  movability,  and  we  very  soon  could  distinguish  the  volumes  of  smoke 
as  they  ascended  into  the  evening  air,  and  then  moved  away  in  cloudlike 
forms. 

"  As  we  drove  through  Naples  from  the  station  I  felt  the  keenest  disap- 
pointment. There  is  an  Italian  proverb,  'See  Naples,  and  then  die'— of 
the  smells,  I  should  add ;  for  of  all  the  dirty  places  and  dirty  people  I 
ever  saw,  the  like  of  those  we  passed  through  on  our  way  to  the  hotel  sur- 
passed all  previous  experience.  But  at  lust  we  turned  towards  the  bny, 
and  then  the  glorious  sight  that  met  my  eyes  was  ample  compensation. 
Something  like  Nice,  Naples  forms  a  huge  crescent,  backed  up  by  hills  of 
every  shape  and  color ;  with  Vesuvius  looking  like  a  king  among  his  vas- 
sals as  he  towers  above  the  rest.  Every  variety  of  color — pearly-gray, 
golden-brown,  and  the  tenderest  negative  green — mixing  together  in  the 
evening  light,  pervaded  the  mountains ;  and  they  seemed  almost  upon  you 
in  the  pellucid  air.  But  oh  !  the  dirty,  colorless,  unpicturesque  brutes  that 
made  the  living  element  in  this  magic  scene !  I  had  imagined  the  luzza- 
roni  of  Naples  with  red  caps,  faded  velvet  jackets  of  every  shade  of  color, 
naked  legs  and  thighs,  mending  nets,  chatting  to  dark-eyed  beauties,  and 
so  on  ;  instead  of  which  they  are  drabby,  shabby,  dirty  creatures,  ugly  and 
revolting  in  every  way.  Parts  of  Naples,  away  from  the  fashionable  quar- 
ter, strongly  remind  one  of  the  worst  parts  of  Ramsgate,  Folkestone,  or 
Hastings.  You  might  fancy  yourself  at  either  of  those  places,  and  this  in 
front  of  that  eternally  lovely  bay  !  If  the  creatures  lived  at  iloundsditch, 
we  might  have  fancied  that  their  surroundings  had  demoralized  them  ;  but 
they  never  seem  to  look  at  anything  but  one  another's  heads,  or  into  the 
filthy  messes  they  are  eating. 

"  The  museum  at  Naples  contains  some  of  the  finest  sculpture  in  the 
world,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Pompeian  relics,  more  interesting,  perhaps, 
to  the  casual  observer. 

"  On  Friday  we  spent  the  day  at  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii.  It  was  a 
long  drive  through  Portici,  and  not  a  pretty  one — filili  and  beggars  all  the 
way.  We  stopped  at  nn  inn  to  order  luncheon ;  and  while  it  was  pre- 
paring  we  drove  to  the  Pompeian  Amphitheatre,  which  stands  alone  at 
present,  on  the  outskirts  of  what  was  Pompeii — the  greater  part  of  which 
is  still  buried  under  volcanic  ashes.  And  there  stands  the  arena — not 
circular,  as  I  had  fancied,  but  elliptical — most  of  the  stone  seats  still  stand- 
ing one  above  the  other  in  long  tiers.  The  dens  of  the  animals,  the  wait- 
ing-room of  the  gladiators,  might  have  been  occupied  yesterday  !  To  a 
reader  of  Bulwer,  how  specially  interesting! — the  empty  look  of  the  place 
so  often  filled  by  eager  thousands;  the  awful  contrast  between  the  still- 
ness now,  and  the  mingled  roars  of  beasts,  and  men  worse  than  beasts, 
that  rose  into  the  great  sky  thousands  of  years  ago !  Then  there  are  the 
very  seats,  in  the  best  part  larger  and  more  commodious,  in  which  the 
aristocracy  sat.  Separate  boxes  for  the  ladies  at  the  top  (the  women  never 
sat  with  the  men)  were  broken  and  grass-grown,  but  all  so  nearly  com- 
plete, that  a  very  little  would  restore  the  amphitheatre  to  its  original  con- 


324  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   KEMINISCENCES. 

dition.  As  we  drove  to  it  we  passed  on  the  side  of  the  road  what  ap- 
peared to  me  a  cluster  of  mud-hovels ;  very  small,  dirty,  and  drabby,  roof- 
less and  miserable,  without  a  vestige  of  color,  or  column,  or  statue  ;  and  a 
modern  shed  with  new  red  tiles  here  and  there,  put  up  apparently  to  pro- 
tect something.  I  looked.  I  heard  the  courier,  whom  everybody  here 
treats  with  great  respect  and  calls  Signor  Corriere,  say :  '  Dere  you  haf 
Pompeii,  sir !'  '  Well,  of  all  the  sells  in  the  world !'  we  all  exclaimed ; 
and  very  foolish  we  were  to  be  so  rashly  guided  by  first  impressions,  for 
the  roofless,  colorless  place  that  Pompeii  certainly  seems  at  a  distance,  re- 
solved itself,  on  nearer  approach,  into  the  most  wonderful  little  city  in  the 
world ;  but  it  seems  built  for  pigmies.  The  streets  are  eleven  feet  wide 
at  their  widest ;  the  houses  were  never  more  than  one  story  high,  and 
they  were  all  built  on  the  same  plan ;  but  the  frescoes  and  other  decora- 
tions are  very  varied  and  beautiful. 

"  Our  guide  through  the  ruins  was  a  Neapolitan  soldier ;  and  what  with 
his  comical  French,  and  his  still  more  comical  manners,  he  kept  us  highly 
amused.  He  seemed  to  think  what  he  had  to  describe  ought  to  interest 
us  as  much  as  if  he  were  showing  the  gates  of  heaven ;  and  the  way  in 
which  he  said  in  English  (the  only  words  he  could  speak  in  that  language) 
'  by  and  by,  sare,  by  and  by,'  when  we  attempted  to  anticipate  his  narra- 
tive, was  indescribable.  He  called  me  '  Mosseu '  at  every  word,  and  was 
altogether  inimitable  in  look,  manners,  and  everything.  I  was  surprised 
to  find  that  not  more  than  a  third  of  the  little  city  is  uncovered ;  and  the 
excavations  are  now  going  on  with  great  vigor.  Discoveries  of  deep  in- 
terest are  made  every  day ;  and  as  we  wandered  about  we  could  see  the 
workmen  as  busy  as  bees  pickaxing  away  the  lava  and  ashes,  like  a  lot 
of  English  navvies.  A  friend  of  our  conductor's  said  something  to  him 
that  made  him  start ;  and  he  left  us,  only  to  return  running  and  gesticu- 
lating like  a  madman.  '  Mosseu,  on  a  trouvay  oone  cadavre.'  The  deuce 
they  have,  thought  I;  that  will  be  something  to  see.  Fancy  the  thrilling 
interest  with  which  I  approached  the  excavations,  and  saw  the  men  kneel- 
ing and  carefully  picking  away  the  volcanic  matter  from  the  body  of  a 
woman  so  perfect  that  you  could  not  only  distinguish  the  sex,  but  you  felt 
sure  she  had  been  beautiful !  Anything  more  pathetic  could  not  be  con- 
ceived— a  young  mother  with  little  children  huddled  about  her ;  one  hand 
covered  her  face,  and  with  the  other  she  had  tried  to  protect  a  child  from 
the  pitiless  shower  of  sulphurous  ashes  and  boiling  water  that  over- 
whelmed them  in  that  awful  time.  She  conveyed  to  me,  as  she  lay  there, 
the  struggle  she  had  made  to  escape,  through  darkness  so  dense — ac- 
cording to  Pliny,  who  was  in  it — that  people  could  not  see  each  other, 
though  they  might  be  touching ;  and  at  last  in  despair  had  thrown  herself 
down  to  die,  and  be  concealed  under  the  fatal  ashes  for  eighteen  centu- 
ries ;  then  to  be  uncovered  before  the  eyes  of  the  present  writer.  I  only 
saw  the  upper  part  of  the  body  down  to  a  little  below  the  waist  brought 
to  light,  the  excavators  telling  us  they  were  obliged  to  be  so  tender  with 
their  work  that  it  might  be  many  hours  before  the  whole  figure  was 
revealed. 

"  Hcrculaneum  is  very  like  Pompeii,  but  the  extent  excavated  is  much 


VISIT   TO    ITALY.  325 

smaller.  Instead  of  the  shower  of  ashes  that  overwhelmed  Pompeii,  lava, 
in  some  places  thirty  feet  thick,  had  been  poured  upon  lierculaneum ; 
forming  a  surface  hard  as  flint  The  difficulty  of  removing  such  an  ob- 
struction may  be  imagined. 

"The  wonderful  freshness  of  the  Pompcian  houses,  as  they  are  laid 
open  to  the  light  of  day,  is  astonishing;  and  the  things  they  find!  On  a 
plate  were  some  walnuts,  some  cracked  and  opened,  some  whole ;  a  bunch 
of  grapes ;  three  or  four  olives  in  a  dish,  one  cut  in  half,  nnd  the  knife  ly- 
ing by.  As  to  the  frescoes  and  inscriptions,  they  look  aj  if  they  had  just 
been  executed. 

"  I  must  now  take  leave  of  Pompeii  and  return  to  Naples,  from  whence 
we  took  a  drive  along  the  bay  to  Baiae,  where  we  had  an  al-fretco  lunch 
that  was  delightful.  We  drove  up  to  an  Italian  inn — albergo,  they  call  it 
— which  has  been  uncommonly  well  imitated  on  the  stage.  We  were  con- 
ducted up  some  stairs,  outside  the  house,  to  a  terrace  overlooking  the  sea, 
with  the  island  of  Capri  in  the  distance.  The  landlord  and  landlady  bus- 
tled about,  just  as  they  do  at  a  theatre.  I  felt  I  was  acting  a  part,  and 
had  only  come  on  to  the  terrace  from  the  side  scenes. 

" '  What  can  we  have  to  eat  ?' 

" '  Well,  signer '  (that's  to  myself), '  we  can  give  you  oysters  from  Lago — ' 
something  or  other,  to  which  he  pointed — '  or  these  fishes,  noble  sir,  which 
were  alive  an  hour  ago.' 

" '  Serve  the  banquet,'  said  I  to  the  corrierr,  who  was  interpreter,  of 
course ;  and  anything  more  enjoyable  never  was  enjoyed. 

"  The  landlord's  eyes  glistened,  and  his  earrings  twinkled  with  delight 
at  our  praises  of  his  food,  above  all  of  the  wine  of  his  own  growing. 

"  '  Let  the  signer  observe  it  is  too  early  yet ;  if  he  will  come  later  he 
will  find  the  veranda,  covering  the  terrace  where  he  sits,  a  mass  of 
grapes.' 

"  The  signer  leans  over  the  balcony  smoking.  The  landlord  desires  to 
know  if  the  noble  Englishman  would  like  them  to  dance  the  Tarantella. 
'  Yes,  that  is  what  he  would  like.'  So  from  some  depth  below  come  up 
two  girls — helpers  or  servants  of  the  inn,  perhaps — with  naked  feet;  and 
such  dresses ;  about  as  unlike  the  stage  as  possible — very  dirty,  but  such 
color!  We  could  hear  the  rattle  of  the  castanets  a-  the  dancers  came  up- 
stairs, followed  by  the  jolly  landlady,  who  carried  a  huge  tambourine- 
They  ?et  to  work  at  once ;  they  twisted,  they  wriggled,  they  poiissetted  op- 
posite each  other,  swinging  round  and  round ;  the  castanets  constantly 
crackling  and  keeping  time  to  the  tambourine.  It  was  delightful  to 
watch  the  supple,  stayless  figures  pcforming  the  national  dance  as  if  they 
enjoyed  it  to  the  full.  When  the  performers  were  thoroughly  out  of 
breath  we  stopped  them  with  some  money,  and  took  our  leave  of  Ha'ui- 
and  them. 

"  We  returned  to  Rome  from  Naples,  and  from  thence  we  went  to  Flor- 
ence, via  Perugia.  The  latter  is  a  delicious  place,  thoroughly  Italian, 
without  Italian  disagreeables.  It  is  a  very  old  city,  wonderfully  pictu- 
resque; with  its  quaint,  time-worn  buildings  crowning  one  of  the  Um- 
brian  hills,  and  overlooking  the  lovely  valley,  or,  rather,  valleys,  of  the 


326  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Tiber.  Of  the  view  from  my  window  I  despair  of  giving  you  an  idea,  so 
utterly  unlike  is  it  to  anything  you  could  see  in  England,  or,  indeed,  any- 
where but  in  Italy.  Perhaps  if  you  can  fancy  the  view  from  Richmond 
Hill  magnified  and  repeated  a  thousand  times,  stretching  for  scores  upon 
scores  of  miles,  you  may  get  a  faint  idea ;  but  where  are  the  eternal  Apen- 
nines to  close  up  the  distance?  Where  is  the  undulating  country,  huge 
wave  after  wave,  like  a  mighty  sea  melting  away  into  faint  aerial  dis- 
tance, dotted  with  giant  yew  or  fir  trees,  and  the  ever-lovely  olive  and 
vine — now  and  again  with  the  little  cities  and  scattered  hamlets  shining  in 
sunlight? 

"  That  gray  clump  at  the  foot  of  the  snow-topped  mountain,  which  you 
can  just  make  out  to  be  a  city,  though  it  looks  as  if  you  could  cover  it 
with  your  handkerchief,  is  Assisi,  where  we  shall  go  presently.  From  my 
standpoint  I  fancy  I  can  trace  the  source  of  the  backgrounds  in  the  pict- 
ures of  Perugino,  Raphael,  and  the  rest  of  the  Umbrian  school ;  indeed, 
the  resemblance  of  the  landscape  to  that  in  the  pictures,  and  the  people  to 
the  artists'  models,  is  palpable.  As  to  Messieurs  Cimabue,  Giotto,  and 
even  Perugino,  I  fear  I  must  confess  I  am  sick  of  them.  There  is  an  un- 
doubted earnestness,  begot  of  belief,  that  amounts  at  times  to  solemnity, 
and  gives  to  what  these  men  did  an  air  of  simple  truth  that  is  greatly  to 
be  admired ;  but  it  is  conveyed  to  you  through  the  medium  of  such  im- 
perfect art,  such  infantine  attempts  to  produce  what  is  shown  in  such 
perfection  in  later  times,  that  what  is  meant  to  be  solemn  is  often  ludi- 
crous, and  simplicity  is  pushed  into  lameness  and  insipidity;  in  fact, these 
pictures  are  curiosities,  and  not  works  of  art  at  all  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
term. 

"  We  drove  to  Assisi — such  a  drive ! — and  saw  the  famous  church,  or 
rather  churches,  for  the  immense  pile  consists  of  three  churches  built 
over  one  another ;  the  whole  covering  the  canonized  bones  of  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi,  the  remarkable  person  who  preached  to  a  congregation  of  birds. 
The  decorations  in  the  upper  church  are  entirely  the  work  of  Giotto;  and 
though  they  are  in  a  sadly  perished  condition,  the  subjects  can  still  be 
traced.  In  one  large  fresco  you  find  St.  Francis — represented  in  his 
youthful  days — so  misconducting  himself  that  his  father  thought  he  was 
mad,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  giving  him  a  good  thrashing  for  not  at- 
tending to  his  work,  when  an  angel  appears  and  informs  the  old  gentleman 
of  the  future  destiny  of  his  son.  The  old  man,  who  is  full  of  character, 
looks  at  the  angel  with  a  kind  of  '  Can  I  believe  my  eyes '  expression ; 
mixed  with  a  look  which  conveyed  to  me  the  notion  that  the  appearance 
of  the  supernatural  figure  was  suspected  to  be  a  trick  of  Francis's — who 
looks  an  idle  dog — to  frighten  his  father.  However,  the  stern  parent's 
heart  is  softened,  his  hand  is  stayed ;  and  Francis  goes  into  the  world  and 
proceeds  to  heal  sick  people,  and  cast  out  the  ugliest  devils  that  were 
ever  seen  in  this  world  or  any  other.  Francis  sees  as  many  visions  as  he 
pleases ;  has  the  most  familiar  intercourse  with  the  heavenly  choir,  from 
the  principal  personages  down  to  the  smallest  cherub ;  and  finally  succeeds 
in  deluding  himself,  and  millions  of  others,  into  absolute  belief  in  such 
follies — a  belief  which  they  proceeded  to  prove  to  all  the  world  by  placing 


VISIT  TO   ITALY.  327 

over  the  body  of  this  weak-minded,  hysterical  monk  a  dream  in  stone,  too 
lovely  for  words;  every  inch  of  it  colored  and  carved  with  a  thoroughness 
:ind  a  beauty  that  nothing  but  faith  could  bring  about ;  but  faith  in  what ': 
— a  series  of  impostures  or  self-delusions,  or  perhaps  both. 

"  From  my  youth  up  I  had  been  told  by  the  happy  people  fresh  from 
Italy  of  the  treasures  in  Florence.  '  Until  you  have  seen  the  Uffizi  and 
the  Pitti  Galleries,'  said  my  travelled  friends,  'you  know  nothing  of  the 
powers  of  Raphael,  Titian,  and  Correggio,  to  say  nothing  of  the  smaller 
masters.'  My  delight  in  finding  myself  in  Florence  may  be  imagined; 
though  the  hotel  was  so  thronged  that  we  were  consigned  to  the  third 
floor,  my  bedroom  being  so  close  to  a  bell-tower  that  I  could  almost  touch 
it  Florence  seems  to  have  hundreds  of  such  towers — seldom  silent — 
so  the  chances  of  rest  in  their  vicinity  are  remote;  it  was  therefore 
after  a  somewhat  sleepless  niglit  that  I  paid  my  first  visit  to  the  Uffizi 
Palace. 

"  In  the  tribune  stands  '  the  statue  that  enchants  the  world.'  I  confess 
I  am  not  of  that  world,  for  I  think  the  figure  affected  and  idealized  till 
nature  has  almost  left  it.  I  had  drawn  from  it  often ;  and  the  more  I 
knew  of  my  art  and  of  the  Venus  de'  Medici,  the  less  I  thought  of  the  lat- 
ter, and  the  more  surprised  I  was  at  its  reputation :  its  sister  Venus  of 
Milo  immeasurably  surpasses  it  in  every  quality.  Close  by  the  Medicean 
Venus  hangs  that  of  Titian.  A  lovely  reclining  figure,  said  to  be  a  por- 
trait of  the  mistress  of  one  of  the  Dukes  d'  Urbino.  This  picture  displays 
every  charm  of  art  in  absolute  perfection.  The  Uffizi  Gallery  bristles  with 
splendid  specimens  of  all  the  great  masters.  Raphael's  Circular  Madonna, 
with  the  holy  Child,  smiles  ut  you  as  the  baker's  daughter  smiled  upon  the 
painter;  but  the  rapt  expression  of  the  San  Sisto  picture,  which  conveys 
to  you  the  impression  that  tlie  '  most  blessed  among  women '  is  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  consciousness  of  her  awful  destiny — is  absent  from  the  Ma- 
donna dclla  Seggiola,  who  is  but  a  lovely  mother,  caressing  a  no  less  lovely 
child.  Here  we  have  one  of  the  few  specimens  of  Botticelli  that  my  feeble 
powers  enable  me  to  appreciate.  I  think  I  feel  fully  the  beauties  of  the 
Uffizi  picture,  which  equals,  if  it  does  not  surpass,  the  three  angels  in  our 
National  Gallery — a  work  that  always  gives  me  exquisite  pleasure.  But 
this  master  so  often  disfigures  his  pictures  by  bad  drawing  and  worse  paint- 
ing, and  by  such  a  revelling  in  ugliness — notably  seen  in  his  *  Venuscs'  in 
our  collection — as  to  make  it  a  matter  of  wonder  to  me  how  admirers  can 
be  found  for  them." 

But  I  must  hurry  away  from  Florence,  and  again  draw 
upon  letters  written  at  the  time  from  my  experiences  of 
Italian  travel: 

"IIoTKL  DASIKLI,  VENICE,  May  11,  1875. 

"  Here  I  am  in  Venice — such  a  Venice,  going  infinitely  beyond  all  I 
could  have  conceived  of  it  in  exquisite  beauty !  Instead  of  a  cab  at  the 
station,  I  took  a  gondola.  Two  Italians,  just  like  organ-grinders  in  Lon- 
don, one  at  the  prow,  the  other  at  the  stern,  urged  the  black,  hearsclike 


328  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

thing  swiftly  and  silently  along  tlie  water  streets;  past  masses  of  gorgeous 
palaces,  and  marble  churches,  with  the  most  exquisite  tracery  of  delicious 
architectural  detail  that  the  mind  of  poet  ever  conceived.  Such  color, 
lighted  up  here  and  there  by  the  evening  sun,  and  such  associations  con- 
nected with  every  place ! 

" '  What  bridge  is  that  ?' 

" '  The  Rialto.' 

"  '  And  the  smaller  one,  under  which  we  have  just  passed  ?' 

"  '  That,  signer,  is  the  Ponte  dei  Sospiri.' 

"  I  had  scarcely  time  to  note  the  doge's  palace  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
awful  prison,  with  its  rusted,  clamped,  trebly-barred,  niched  windows  on 
the  other,  before  we  were  out  into  the  wide  lagoon ;  and,  seeming  to  float 
in  the  glorious  light,  was  the  Church  of  the  Salute  with  its  attendant  lovely 
surroundings." 

"May  13. 

"  The  Princess  of  Prussia  is  in  this  hotel,  and  the  Venetians  improvised 
a  water  fete  on  the  Grand  Canal  in  honor  of  the  royal  visit.  I  did  not  in- 
tend to  have  assisted  at  it,  but  a  friend  who  had  challenged  me  in  the 
picture-galleries  had  hired  a  boat,  and  it  required  very  little  pressure  to  in- 
duce me  to  take  a  place  in  it ;  and  we  soon  found  our  gondola  making  one 
among  scores  of  others,  most  of  them  decorated  with  paper  lanterns  of 
every  conceivable  form. 

"  We  glided  silently  about,  waiting  for  a  big  barge  which  presently  ap- 
peared ;  a  mass  of  light  and  flowers,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a  military 
band  and  chorus-singers  from  the  opera.  We  on  the  gondolas  surrounded 
and  followed  the  barge  as  it  moved  almost  imperceptibly  along ;  the  music 
from  the  instruments  rising  up  into  the  quiet  air,  thrilling  and  enchanting 
us.  We  paused  opposite  this  hotel  in  honor  of  the  princess ;  and  then  the 
human  voices,  in  what  seemed  to  me  delicious  accord,  broke  in  upon  the 
night ;  and  as  the  last  strains  from  the  band  died  away,  again  we  moved 
slowly  in  a  serried  mass.  The  figures  of  the  gondoliers  as  they  bent  to 
their  work,  now  cutting  dark  against  a  mass  of  light,  now  lighted  into 
brilliancy  as  a  blue  or  red  light  showed  them  up  as  clearly  as  the  bright- 
est sun.  I  don't  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  we  were  so  jammed  together 
that  you  might  have  walked  dryshod  from  one  side  of  the  Grand  Canal  to 
the  other ;  and  though  I  constantly  found  the  bright  steel  prow  of  a  gon- 
dola close  to  my  arm,  or  to  my  back,  such  was  the  wonderful  skill  of  the 
fellows  that  a  violent  blow  never  struck  a  boat,  much  less  a  human  being, 
the  whole  night  through  ;  though  at  times  the  crowding  would  have  alarmed 
the  timid. 

"  At  our  approach  every  detail  of  delicate  tracery  of  some  splendid  palace 
would  be  artificially  lighted,  seeming  to  welcome  us.  The  steps  of  the 
churches  blazed  with  blue  and  red  fire ;  hundreds  of  faces  lighted  into  a 
ruddy  glow,  or  a  ghastly  blue  from  the  whiter  light;  then  all  on  shore 
dark  again.  Still  we  move  slowly  on,  tho  music  swells  and  echoes  up 
the  side  canals ;  and  all  the  while  the  quiet  moon  looks  down  upon  us 
with  her  usual  inscrutable  indifference  to  all  that  goes  on  below.  It  was 


VISIT  TO   ITALY.  329 

getting  very  late,  so  we  left  the  procession  at  the  Rialto,  and  went  to  our 
hotel. 

"The  Academy  at  Venice  contains  the  generally  admitted  chtf-dcntvre 
of  Tintoretto,  the  '  Miracle  of  St.  Mark,'  and  the  '  Great  Assumption '  by 
Titian,  both  works  bestowing  immortality — in  this  world — on  their  pro- 
ducers. I  should  be  wearisome  if  I  were  to  name  a  tithe  of  the  great 
works  that  honor  Venice.  In  no  other  place  are  you  able  thoroughly  to 
gauge  the  powers  of  Paul  Veronese  and  Tintoretto,  that  unapproached  and 
unapproachable  pair.  Titian,  too — though  a  lamentable  fire  destroyed  the 
'Peter  Martyr,'  one  of  his  grandest  pictures,  if  we  may  judge  by  good  copies 
from  it — displays  all  liis  strength  ;  unfortunately  too  often  impaired  by  the 
bad  light  in  the  churches,  and  by  the  height  over  the  altars  where  the  sa- 
cred pictures  have  been  hanging  since  the  time  of  their  production.  The 
doge's  palace  contains  splendid  examples  of  Paul  Veronese,  notably  the 
'  Europa,'  which  looks  as  fresh  as  if  il  had  been  painted  yesterday.  To 
those  who  have  never  seen  Venice  it  is  impossible  to  impart  the  sensation 
with  which  one  finds  one's  self  standing  on  the  marble  steps  from  whence 
the  head  of  Marino  Faliero  rolled  from  his  shoulders;  or  with  which  one 
sees  the  crape-covered  space  in  the  long  line  of  portraits  of  the  doges,  on 
which  are  inscribed  his  name  and  crime.  I  have  walked  on  the  Rialto, 
where  Shylock  was  taunted  by  Antonio.  I  have  stood  in  front  of  the  empty 
seats  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  on  the  spot  from  which  Othello  addressed  the 
'  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors.'  I  have  been  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
and  into  the  fearful  prisons  below;  have  seen  the  exact  spot  where  the 
headless  bodies  of  the  two  Foscari  were  dropped  into  the  secret  water — 
and  never,  so  long  as  'memory  holds  her  scat,'  can  these  things  pass 
from  me, 

"  I  am  familiar  with  the  works  of  the  Bolognese  school,  and,  though 
familiarity  has  not  bred  contempt,  it  has  failed  to  create  admiration ;  and, 
as  I  was  told  that  I  could  not  judge  the  painters  fairly  without  seeing  them 
in  their  full  strength  at  Bologna,  leaving  my  family  in  Venice,  I  pro- 
ceeded thither  in  charge  of  an  excellent  courier,  Gustave,  of  whom  I  may 
take  this  opportunity  of  giving  a  little  account  Gustave  Zimmermann,  a 
Swiss  by  birth,  a  courier  by  profession,  is  a  wiry  man ;  iron-gray,  rather 
thin,  above  middle  height,  and  about  fifty  years  old.  He  has  a  sharp,  irri- 
table face,  a  long  upper  lip,  curving  outward  in  the  middle,  and  nice  teeth ; 
with  a  laugh  rather  too  much  like  the  grin  of  a  monkey.  His  nostrils  are 
set  at  sharp  angles  at  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  they  dilate  and  turn  out- 
ward in  a  way  that  denotes  the  irritability  of  temper  to  which  he  is  cer- 
tainly subject ;  and  if  we  get  home  without  some  of  these  Italian  fellows 
sticking  a  knife  into  him,  I  shall  be  glad.  To  see  him  and  them  gestic- 
ulate ovc~r  half  a  franc  is  a  sight !  He  leaves  the  extortioners  with  his  eyes 
flashing,  muttering:  'Damn  rascals!  damn  tiefs!  Dese  fellows,  dey  tink 
you  come  into  doir  damn  country  joost  to  put  your  hands  into  your  pockatea 
and  gift  dem  all  you  have  got;  dat  is  what  dey  link  you  have  come  for, 
damn  rogues !' 

"One  of  our  party  was  always  alarmed,  and  not  unnaturally,  at  some  of 
the  perilous-looking  points  of  our  precipitous  drives ;  and  Gustavo's  de- 


330  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    BEMINISCENCES. 

light  at  the  terror — and  his  demoniac  grin  as  he  says,  '  Ah !  miss  is  not 
comfortable;  ah!  dere  is  no  fear,  no  danger' — should  have  been  repro- 
bated instead  of  encouraged  by  our  laughter.  Then  he  would  say,  '  Now 
we  are  joost  coming  to  a  terrib'  place,  where  a  lady  and  a  leetel  child  were 
both  keeled ;'  and  his  demoniac  smile  spreads  over  his  monkey-face. 

"  I  do  not  think  Gustavo's  determination  to  take  me  into  every  church 
in  every  town  we  visit  arises  from  the  promptings  that  usually  take  people 
to  church ;  for  I  fear  he  has  no  settled  belief  of  any  kind.  He  hates  priests 
and  despises  relics ;  often  saying, '  What  a  power  dose  fellows  haf  over  de 
poor  people  to  get  money  out  of  dem  !  Look  at  dose  marples ;  what  dey 
must  haf  cost !  and  den  to  hombogue  de  people  with  dose  kind  of  tings !' — 
flying  at  the  relics  with  which  the  churches  abound. 

"His  broken  English  is  irresistible.  He  calls  the  Virgin,  the  Wirgin ; 
the  government,  the  gowernament ;  and  '  dose  kind  of  tings '  is  a  compre- 
hensive phrase  that  he  uses  to  avoid  details,  as  well  as  to  express  con- 
tempt. 

"When  we  were  at  Naples  he  told  me  I  must  go  and  see  Wurgle's 
grave. 

"  '  Who  on  earth  is  Wurgle  ?'  said  I. 

" '  Well,  you  see,  he — he  wass — he  wass  a  boet,  or  some  of  dose  sort  of 
tings.' 

"  '  A  poet — a  poet,'  I  repeated  to  myself ;  '  why,  you  must  mean  Virgil.' 

" '  Yaas,  yaas ;  that  is  what  I  say.' 

"  On  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  one  of  his  favorite  churches,  when  he 
would  stand  with  his  '  Murray,'  and  read  to  us  in  slow,  broken  English,  I 
asked  him  about  a  picture  of  a  Martyrdom  that  he  and  I  were  looking  at. 
He  did  not  hear  me  distinctly,  or  else  did  not  understand  my  inquiry,  for 
he  said,  mistaking  the  word  '  martyrdom :' 

" '  Who  has  murtered  dem,  ah  ?  I  cannot  say  dat.  I  should  tink  dey 
haf  murtered  one  another.' 

"  I  must  now  take  leave  of  Gustavo  Zimmermann,  giving  only  one  more 
instance  of  'English  as  she  is  spoke'  by  him.  On  the  evening  of  our  ar- 
rival at  an  Italian  inn,  before  going  to  bed,  Gustave  came  for  the  usual 
order  for  next  morning's  breakfast.  Soles  were  decided  upon.  I  took  my 
ordinary  walk  in  the  hotel  garden  before  breakfast.  Presently  our  trusty 
courier  approached  me  and  said,  in  solemn  tones,  '  Dere  is  no  soles — dere 
is  only  whitening.'1 " 

"  BOLOGNA,  May  15. 

"  The  brothers  Caracci,  with  Guido  and  Guercino,  were  the  most  prom- 
inent members  of  the  Bolognese  school ;  indeed,  they  were  the  founders 
of  it,  and  an  ugly  school  it  is — coarse,  big,  exaggerated,  and  black.  Their 
works  gave  me  little  or  no  pleasure.  Guido  is  certainly  a  stronger  man 
than  I  thought  him ;  but  after  Titian,  Paul  Veronese,  and  Tintoretto,  he  and 
his  school  'pale  their  ineffectual  fire.'  Bologna — a  part  of  one  of  whose 
sausages  we  had  for  our  luncheon  yesterday — is  a  quaint  old  place.  The 
first  impression  it  makes  upon  you,  as  you  drive  to  your  hotel,  is  that  it  is 
all  arcades  and  arches ;  for  in  front  of  every  house  in  all  the  streets  is  a 


VISIT   TO    ITALY.  331 

broad  pavement,  arched  over  to  keep  pedestrians  in  continual  shade,  I  sup- 
pose; so  you  seem  to  drive  through  miles  of  Regent  Street  Quadrant 
(since  done  away),  with  the  difference  that  at  Bologna  the  columns  are 
connected  with  each  other  by  arches.  There  are  some  fine  churches,  but  I 
resolutely  refused  to  enter  them,  as  they  could  not  boast  of  pictures  worth 
a  visit." 

I  rejoined  my  family  at  Venice,  and  left  for  Milan,  on 
our  way  to  the  Italian  lakes,  which  we  reached  on  the 
22d  of  May.  I  write: 

"  We  left  Milan  on  the  afternoon  of  Tuesday,  and  took  the  steamer  at 
Como,  a  place  at  the  foot  of  the  lake  of  that  name,  and  in  two  or  three 
hours  we  traversed  the  larger  and  better  part  of  it.  The  mountains  are 
covered  with  mulberry,  olive,  and  other  trees  rising  abruptly  from  the  edge 
of  the  water ;  they  are  of  every  variety  of  size  and  form,  and  as  you  ap- 
proach or  recede  from  them  they  assume  colors  varying  from  the  most 
velvety  green  to  tender,  pearly,  delicate  gray.  Towns  and  villages  are  scat- 
tered here  and  there  on  the  edges  of  the  lake,  and  sometimes  climb  a  little 
way  up  the  mountains,  which  seem  to  shelter  and  protect  them.  Right 
and  left  of  you  open  up  the  most  lovely  bays  and  nooks,  sometimes  stretch- 
ing for  miles ;  in  short,  enchantment  prevails  in  this  favored  spot  Add 
to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  the  most  balmy  air ;  with  sunlight  which 
seems  to  brighten  and  penetrate  every  thing,"  in  a  way  quite  unfamiliar  to 
our  befogged  eyes ;  the  loveliest  flowers  growing  in  profusion  everywhere 
— all  vegetation  in  the  full  summer  swing  of  England — fancy  all  this,  and 
you  will  get  a  faint  notion  of  the  charms  of  Como.  As  to  Maggiore, 
where  we  are  now,  it  is  the  realization  of  a  poet's  dream ;  the  view  from 
the  window  of  this  room  would  satisfy  the  longings  of  the  most  romantic 
dreamer,  and  would  exceed  all  that  he  could  weave  out  of  his  excited 
brain. 

"  I  can  see  many  miles  straight  ahead  over  the  lake,  and  my  view  is 
bounded  by  mountains  wrapped  in  a  delicious,  gray,  moving  mist.  Right 
and  left  of  these,  mountains  again — jagged,  sugar-loafed,  pyramidal — each 
casting  its  neighbor  into  partial  shade.  Here  and  there  towns  with  their 
tall  campanili,  looking  not  unlike  rough  agates  set  in  emerald,  at  the 
mountains'  feet;  then  the  lake  like  burnished  steel,  and  then  the  islands! 
Isola  Bella,  Pescatori,  I.-ola  Madre,  and  others,  dotted  here  and  there  on 
the  surface  of  the  water;  with  the  white  houses  and  the  dark  cypresses 
reflected  in  the  depths  below  them.  Gustavc's  promise  as  we  steamed  by 
the  rugged  shores  of  Lake  Lugano — before  Maggiorc  burst  upon  us  in  all 
its  glory — that  *  You  shall  now  see  somcting,  dere  is  such  mountains  and 
heels  and  walleys,  and  dose  sort  of  tings,'  was  more  than  realized." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE     BEARDED     MODEL. 

I  BELIEVE  I  speak  elsewhere  of  its  having  been  my 
practice,  after  going  through  a  rather  severe  course  of 
drawing  from  the  antique,  to  scour  the  streets  in  search 
of  models,  from  whom  I  made  studies  in  oil  the  size  of 
life.  I  had  painted  Italian  organ-boys — who  always  went 
to  sleep — chair-menders,  knife-grinders,  and  many  others, 
when  the  desire  possessed  me  to  seek  for  a  man,  an  old 
one  if  possible,  who  wore  a  full  beard.  Fifty  years  ago 
long  beards  were  as  rare  as  a  shaven  face  is  likely  to  be  in 
a  few  years  from  this  time.  Mustaches,  except  on  the  lips 
of  military  men,  were  considered  signs  of  foppery  and 
general  want  of  principle.  The  head  of  a  well-known  firm 
of  drapers  in  Regent  Street  refused  to  take  a  shopman 
who  wore  mustaches,  or  men  who  parted  their  hair  down 
the  middle.  And  to  this  day  the  employees  at  one  of  the 
great  banks  in  the  Strand  are  compelled  to  be  clean  shaven. 
To  illustrate  this,  I  may  instance  the  case  of  an  old  ser- 
vant of  the  bank,  who  was  attacked  severely  by  erysipelas 
in  the  face  and  head.  Even  after  convalescence  the  ten- 
derness of  the  skin  made  shaving  impossible,  but  the  old 
clerk  begged  to  be  allowed  to  return  to  his  desk.  He  was 
told  by  one  of  the  principals,  in  a  kind  note  in  answer  to 
his  application,  that  the  bank  would  endeavor  to  get  on 
without  him  until  his  face  was  in  a  condition  to  bear  the 
attention  of  his  razor. 

Another  example  I  well  remember  was  that  of  a  book- 
illustrator,  named  Stuart,  who,  according  to  his  own  no- 
tion, ought  to  have  been  on  the  throne  of  England  instead 
of  drawing  on  insensible  wood-blocks.  He  could  trace 
his  descent  from  James  I.  He  could  sing  Jacobite  songs, 
and  very  well,  too,  and  he  was  certainly  very  like  Charles  I. 


THE    BEARDED   MODEL.  333 

There  was  not  the  least  doubt  about  his  pedigree,  in 
his  own  mind;  and  he  was  such  a  nuisance  when  once 
launched  into  the  long  list  of  proofs  of  his  royal  blood 
that  we  declared  our  unanimous  conviction  of  the  justice 
of  his  claims,  and  implored  him  to  put  them  forward  in 
the  proper  quarter,  as  we  were  powerless  in  the  matter. 
The  Stuart  beard,  exactly  like  Vandyke's  portrait  of 
Charles,  was  the  treasured  ornament  of  our  friend's  face, 
and  though  he  was  assured  that  the  publishers  felt  such  a 
doubt  of  his  abilities,  and  such  a  conviction  of  his  utterly 
unreliable  character  and  general  dishonesty  in  consequence 
of  his  beard  (one  man  going  so  far  as  to  tell  him  it  cost 
him  two  hundred  a  year),  he  refused  to  remove  it. 

In  due  course  the  Vandyke-brown  beard  became  streaked 
with  silver,  then  quite  white,  and  our  poor  friend  became 
poor  indeed,  and  would  have  died  in  extreme  poverty  had 
he  not  received  well-deserved  assistance  from  a  fund  es- 
tablished to  meet  cases  like  his. 

It  will  be  pretty  clear,  if  what  I  have  said  is  true,  as  it 
most  assuredly  is,  that  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  bearded 
model  would  be  great;  and  for  some  time  I  was  baffled, 
until  one  day,  when  crossing  Soho  Square,  my  attention 
was  drawn  to  a  crowd  of  little  boys,  who  seemed  to  be 
teasing  an  old  man  in  the  manner  of  the  London  street 
boy. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  and  get  your  'air  cut  ?"  said  one. 

"Yah!  where's  your  bundle  of  old  clothes?  yer  ain't 
got  'em  in  that  'ere  basket,  'ave  you  ?"  said  another. 
"  Let's  'ave  a  look  ?  You're  a  Jew,  you  know — now  ain't 
you  ?"  and  so  on. 

All  this  because  the  old  man  wore  a  long  gray  beard, 
then  such  a  rarity.  The  young  gentlemen  had  mistaken 
their  man  in  more  senses  than  one.  He  was  not  a  Jew,  nor 
was  he  the  feeble  creature  that  he  looked;  for,  as  I  reached 
the  group,  he  had  taken  two  of  the  biggest  boys,  one  in 
each  hand,  and  was  knocking  their  heads  together  till  they 
yelled  in  a  key  delightful  to  hear.  He  was  a  little  out  of 
breath  as  he  threw  them  head  over  heels  on  to  the  pave- 
ment, but  soon  recovered,  and,  picking  up  his  basket, 
turned  to  me  and  asked  me  if  I  wanted  any  apples,  at  the 


334  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

same  time  opening  his  basket  and  showing  me  his  stock. 
This  was  my  chance,  and  I  proceeded  to  take  advantage 
of  it.  I  did  want  a  great  many  apples,  and  if  he  would 
bring  some  to  an  address  I  gave  him,  he  would  find  me  a 
good  customer.  The  old  man,  whose  name  I  found  was 
Ennis,  kept  his  appointment,  and  was  shown  into  my 
painting-room. 

There  was  a  slight  look  of  alarm  at  the  semi-darkened 
room,  the  high  window,  and  the  lay  figure,  to  which  he 
gave  a  very  wide  berth.  An  individual  who  is  as  igno- 
rant of  the  requirements  of  art  as  my  apple-merchant  was, 
must  be  approached  with  much  caution.  A  too  hasty 
avowal  of  my  intentions  had  on  several  occasions  placed 
me  in  positions  of  difficulty,  not  to  say  danger.  A  pictu- 
resque orange-girl,  after  using  unquotable  language,  threat- 
ened me  with  the  police;  and  an  Irishwoman,  whose  face 
would  have  been  a  fortune  to  me,  told  me  that  I  was  an 
impudent  young  ruffian,  and  the  sooner  I  "made  myself 
scarce  "  the  better  it  would  be  for  me.  I  found  Ennis  was 
of  Irish  extraction,  and  there  was  an  expression  in  his  eye 
that  acted  like  a  danger-signal.  After  buying  apples 
enough  to  satisfy  him,  I  tried  to  interest  him  in  some  of 
the  bric-d-brac  common  to  an  artist's  studio. 

"  What's  that  thing  ?" 

"  That,"  said  I,  "  is  called  a  fez.  It's  what  people  wear 
in  the  East  instead  of  a  hat." 

"How  rum!" 

"  It's  very  comfortable,  mind  you,"  said  I.  "  Just  you 
put  it  on." 

No  sooner  said  than  done,  and  the  old  man  took  an  ad- 
miring look  at  himself  in  my  cheval  glass.  I  fully  shared 
his  admiration,  for  the  dull  red  of  the  cap,  the  furrowed 
face,  and  the  silvery  beard  made  a  study  that  Rembrandt 
would  have  relished,  and  to  which  none  but  that  genius 
could  do  full  justice.  The  sale  of  his  stock  had  put  my 
man  into  good-hum.or,  and  I  ventured  to  ask  him  how  old 
he  was. 

"  How  old  ?     I  don't  know." 

"  When  is  your  birthday — I  suppose  you  have  one  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't." 


TOE    BEARDED   MODEL.  335 

"  Were  you  born  in  Ireland  ?" 

"No — Kent — 'opping-time;  that's  all  I  know  about  it. 
My  father  and  mother  was  Irish ;  come  over  'opping." 

"  Did  you  ever  have  your  likeness  taken  ?" 

"Yes,  once,  when  I  was  a  boy.  A  deaf  gent  done  it; 
leastways  he  had  a  trumpet,  and  I  shouted  at  'im." 

"  A  deaf  man  ?"  (Gracious  goodness,  could  it  be  Rey- 
nolds !)  "What  kind  of  man  was  he  —  where  did  he 
live  ?" 

"  What  kind  of  man  ?  Ah !  it's  a  vast  of  years  ago, 
you  see,  and  I  didn't  take  particular  notice.  Civil  spoken 
he  was,  and  gave  me  a  kind  of  crook  to  hold." 

"  Can't  you  remember  where  he  lived  ?" 

"  No,  I  forget." 

"Now,  Ennis,"  said  I,  "do  you  mind  telling  me  what 
profit  you  make  in  a  day  by  selling  apples  ?" 

"  WTell,  you  see  —  you  haven't  got  a  drop  of  spirits 
handy,  have  you  ?  I  think  I  have  a  kind  of  chill;  but  I'm 
used  to  that.  It  ain't  only  apples.  Every  morning  of  my 
life — except  Sundays,  and  I'd  go  then  if  I  could — I  goes 
at  daylight,  four  in  summer,  seven  in  winter,  to  Com- 
mon Garden  Market,  and  buys  things,  sometimes  one 
thing  and  sometimes  another,  vegetables  and  that ;  and 
some  days  I  makes  a  profit,  and  some  days  I  doesn't. 
You've  heard  of  the  Gordon  Riots,  ain't  you?  Ah!  I  was 
in  them;  it  was  in  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty, 
that  was." 

"  Have  another  glass  of  the  rum  ;  it  is  very  old,  and 
won't  hurt  you." 

"  Old  it  is — right  you  are,  sir — like  me;  but  all  the  bet- 
ter for  that.  Well,  as  I  was  a-saying,  them  riots.  I'd 
been  to  the  market,  and  when  I  come  away  to  go  'ome  to 
my  breakfast,  which  my  daughter  always  give  me;  she's 
gone  too,  long  ago — I  lives  along  with  my  great-grand- 
daughter now  —  I  walks  along  with  the  crowd  till  we 
come  to  a  street — I  forget  the  name  on  it — and  there  was 
a  lot  of  soldiers  a-standing  in  a  line;  and  if  you'll  believe 
me,  just  as  wo  was  all  pushing  about  in  front  of  'em  —  I 
was  all  of  a  confusion,  and  didn't  know  hardly  what  I  was 
a-doing  of,  pushed  about  lu-re  and  there  —  the  soldiers  up 


336  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

with  their  guns  and  fires  bang  into  the  middle  of  us. 
Some  of  'em  near  me  tumbles  about  as  if  they  was  drunk. 
The  soldiers  had  shot  a  lot  of  'em,  and  why  they  didn't 
shoot  me  I  never  could  make  out  to  this  day.  Well,  sir,  I 
was  pretty  strong  then,  and  I  ain't  weak  now,  as  you  see 
by  them  boys  in  the  square  as  was  insulting  of  me.  So  I 
shoves  my  way  back  among  the  people,  till  I  see  a  sort  of 
entry  kind  of  place  into  a  little  sort  of  street,  and  I  gets 
in  there,  where  I  could  see  no  soldiers,  nor  didn't  want  to; 
and  I  makes  up  my  mind  just  to  wait  till  things  was  quiet 
again.  Well,  would  you  believe  me,  there  came  some  car- 
penter-looking chaps  with  boards  and  things,  and  they 
barricaded  up  both  ends  of  this  'ere  passage.  What  they 
done  it  for  I  dun  know.  They  offered  to  let  me  out,  but  I 
says,  'No,  thank  you,'  for  I  knew  there  was  soldiers  at 
both  ends.  So  there  I  was  all  that  precious  day,  and  my 
daughter  a-crying  and  a-wondering  what  had  become  of 
me.  All  day  long  I  could  hear  the  mob  a-yelling  and 
a -roaring  —  things  thrown  out  o'  windows  seemingly. 
There,  I  never  heard  nothing  like  it  before  nor  since;  and 
I  that  hungry  !  If  I'd  had  apples,  or  oranges,  or  carrots, 
or  turnips,  or  anything  I  could  eat  in  my  basket  that  day 
— I'd  stuck  to  my  basket,  mind  you;  but  what  do  you 
think  it  was  what  I  had  got  from  the  market  that  morn- 
ing? Why,  artichokes,  and  they  ain't  good  to  eat;  least- 
ways, not  raw." 

"Another  glass  of  rum,  Ennis,  eh?  No?  well,  half 
one." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  sir.  Well,  them  carpenter  chaps 
come  at  dark  and  took  down  their  boards,  and  lets  me  out; 
and  one  of  'em  says,  '  Look  here,  young  chap,  where  do 
you  live?'  and  I  up  and  told  him.  And  says  he,  'You'll 
have  to  go  roundabout,  for  there's  lots  of  soldiers  a-camped 
out,'  he  says, '  in  the  streets,  and  they  won't  let  nobody 
pass  nowhere.'  'All  right,  and  thank  you,'  says  I.  So 
I  shoulders  my  basket,  and  you  may  believe  me  or  not,  I 
passed  by  places  "that  had  been  burnt  out  —  fine  houses 
they  was,  and  crowds  standing  staring  at  'em — but  I  takes 
no  notice,  and  home  I  goes,  and  up-stairs  I  goes,  and 
shoves  my  basket  under  my  bed,  where  I  always  puts  it 


THE    BEARDED   MODEL.  337 

till  I  goes  out  to  sell  in  the  morning;  and  my  daughter  give 
me  my  breakfast  and  supper  all  in  one." 

The  rum,  and  the  red  cap,  and  a  little  flush  on  the 
withered  cheeks,  the  old  lips  and  beard  a  little  quivering 
in  the  excitement  of  his  story,  made  up  a  picture  that  I  so 
longed  to  try  my  hand  at  that  I  plunged  into  the  real 
business  of  the  day. 

"  Now  look  here,  Ennis,"  said  I,  "  you  have  not  told  me 
what  your  time  is  worth  to  you;  but  I  will  tell  you  what 
it  is  worth  to  me,  if  you  will  give  me  the  chance  of  taking 
your  likeness  with  that  red  cap  on  your  bond.  I  will  give 
you  five  shillings  for  three  hours  of  your  time." 

This  demand  plunged  my  friend  into  deep  contempla- 
tion. He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  remember  something. 

"  No,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  couldn't  take  it  off',  I 
should  get  cold.  No  more  I  couldn't  none  of  my  clothes." 

"  Take  what  off  ?"  said  I. 

"  This  'ere  beard,"  he  said,  handling  it.  "  You  see,  my 
hand  got  a  bit  shaky,  and  I  was  always  a-cutting  of  my- 
self. One  morning  my  granddaughter  screeched  out  that 
I  had  cut  my  throat." 

"Goodness,  no  !"  I  interrupted;  it's  your  beard  I  want 
beyond  everything." 

"  Oh,  all  right  then  !  You'll  want  my  coat  and  waist- 
coat and  shirt  off,  as  the  deaf  gent  did,  and  you  see  I  was 
young  then  and  didn't  mind  it ;  but  I  should  get  the  rheu- 
matics or  something.  No,  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"Bless  the  man  !  I  don't  want  you  to  take  off  any  of 
your  clothes.  I  only  want  just  to  take  your  likeness — that 
is,  the  likeness  of  your  face." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  Then  why  did  the  old  gent  make 
me  take  off  all  but  my  trousers,  and  give  me  a  crook  to 
hold  ?  There  was  a  lamb  in  the  picture  as  the  old  gent 
done.  If  you  should  want  a  lamb  to  set,  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  butch—" 

"No,  no;  it's  you  I  want,  and  neither  lamb  nor  butcher." 

"  Well,  sir"  (after  more  consideration),  "I  see  no  harm 
in  it  —  five  bob  for  three  hours.     You  won't  mind  throw- 
ing in  a  glass  or  two  of  that  rum  ?    You  see,  I'm  subject 
to  a  chill,  and  sitting  still  is  apt  to  bring  it  on." 
15 


338  MY   AUTOBIOGBAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Upon  this  happy  conclusion  a  day  was  fixed  for  the  first 
sitting. 

Painters  of  the  present  generation  do  not,  except  in  rare 
instances,  admire  the  work  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence;  and 
they  would  scarcely  credit  the  influence  which  that  artist 
exercised  over  the  minds  and  practice  of  the  young  men 
of  my  early  days.  'Tis  true  he  had  been  dead  six  or  seven 
years  before  I  began  my  profession;  but  his  spirit  seemed 
to  be  among  us,  guiding  us  generally,  I  think,  in  a  wrong 
direction.  At  any  rate,  I  managed  to  copy  some  of  his 
worst  faults  very  successfully,  and  one  or  two  of  my  fel- 
low-students followed  my  example.  It  is  not  surprising, 
then,  that  I  contrived  to  give  a  flavor  of  Lawrence  to  my 
rendering  of  old  Ennis.  I  flattered  him,  I  made  him  smile. 
I  put  those  liquid  touches  into  his  eyes  that  Lawrence 
found  in  all  eyes;  and  although  I  confess  I  did  not  see 
them  in  my  old  man,  they  ought  to  have  been  there,  and 
there  they  are  accordingly  to  this  day. 

I  wish  I  could  remember  much  of  the  old  man's  talk, 
but  memory  betrays  me.  1838  was  the  year  he  first  sat 
for  me:  he  could  not  have  been  less  than  eighty  years  old, 
probably  some  years  more.  He  remembered  when  um- 
brellas "came  in  wogue"  —  what  that  year  was  I  don't 
know;  he  also  picked  blackberries  in  the  Oxford  Road 
(now  Oxford  Street),  opposite  to  the  building  formerly 
known  as  the  Pantheon.  I  recommended  him  as  a  model 
(a  business  to  which  he  never  took  kindly)  to  many  of  my 
fellow-students,  especially  to  Douglas  Cowper;  but  it  is 
with  my  own  rendering  of  him  that  I  have  to  do.  As  I 
have  said,  I  made  many  life-studies  for  practice,  and  as 
soon  as  they  were  done  and  fresh  canvas  was  required,  I 
sent  them  to  an  auction  -  room,  kept  by  one  Jones,  where, 
if  they  sold  for  what  they  were  worth,  public  estimation 
of  them  was  not  extravagant,  for  the  best  of  them  never 
realized  more  than  a  few  shillings,  and  Ennis,  fez  and  all, 
sold  for  four  and  ninepeuce.  Well  do  I  recollect  the  pre- 
cise sum,  because  I  bought  a  hat  with  it.  Four-and-nine- 
penny  hats  may  be  remembered  by  elderly  people,  who 
may  have  been  more  fortunate  in  their  purchases  than  I 
was.  The  first  shower  of  rain  finished  mine;  perhaps  it 


1  Hi;    BEARDED   MODEL.  339 

was  not  a  good  one.  Those  hats,  no  doubt,  varied  in  ex- 
cellence, like  other  things.  It  was  very  shiny,  and  till  the 
wet  weather  I  was  envied  by  the  envious.  The  hat  dis- 
appeared very  soon  indeed  after  the  picture;  the  former 
I  never  saw  again,  the  latter — or  what  turned  out  to  be  a 
copy  of  it — greeted  ray  wandering  eyes  in  a  picture-shop 
in  York  four  years  afterwards.  My  first  impression  was 
that  I  looked  upon  my  own  work;  I  recognized  the  fez, 
the  gray  beard,  the  smile  (which  seemed  to  have  increased 
a  good  deal),  and  all  the  rest  of  it;  but  a  nearer  inspec- 
tion proved  to  me  that  the  picture  was  a  copy,  and  some- 
what smaller  than  the  original. 

"  What  is  the  price  of  the  old  man  with  the  gray  beard, 
in  the  window  ?" 

"  Two  guineas,  sir." 

"  Pray  who  is  it  by  ?" 

"  By  Mr.  Rivers,  of  Hull,  sir.  We  have  had  several  of 
them  from  him;  they  sell  readily." 

"  What !  for  two  guineas  apiece?" 

"Oh  dear,  yes,  sir.  They  are  good  sound  works  of  art; 
we  can  recommend  them.  Considered  in  the  Lawrence 
style,  sir." 

Strange  coincidence  !  Rivers  was  a  schoolfellow,  and 
is  now  an  old  friend  of  mine.  I  knew  he  was  an  artist, 
practising  in  Hull,  and  from  letters  received  from  him 
from  time  to  time,  I  gathered  that  he  was  immortalizing 
aldermen,  merchants,  sea-captains,  and  others.  Why,  then, 
copy  my  picture  ?  How  and  where  did  he  get  it  ?  Did 
he  know  the  author  of  it?  These  questions  I  couldn't 
answer,  and  the  whole  matter  passed  out  of  my  mind. 
About  a  year  after  my  vision  of  the  fez  and  the  gray- 
bearded  old  man  in  the  York  picture-shop,  my  friend 
Rivers  called  on  me  in  London.  I  returned  his  call,  and' 
found  him  pleasantly  located  in  the  artist  quarter  in  New- 
man Street,  where  the  high  windows  cut  up  into  the  third 
floor  may  still  be  seen.  I  was  shown  into  his  studio,  and 
the  first  object  that  met  my  astonished  gaze  was  my  pict- 
ure of  "  Ennis  Effcndi,"  magnificently  framed,  in  a  place 
of  honor  over  the  chimney-piece.  Rivers  came  in  as  I 
was  studying  my  own  work.  After  the  customary  greet- 


340  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

ings,  and  expressing  the  real  pleasure  with  which  I  wel- 
comed him  to  London,  my  sincere  wishes  for  his  success, 
and  so  on,  my  eyes  again  wandered  to  the  red  cap  and  the 
gray  beard. 

"  Ah,  my  boy,"  said  Rivers,  "  that's  a  fine  thing,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Pretty  well.     Who  is  it  by  ?" 

" Pretty  well!"  with  contempt.  "You  are  a  nice  fellow 
to  call  a  head  like  that  '  Pretty  well.  Who  is  it  by  ?' 
You  ought  to  know  who  it's  by  !" 

"  Well,  I  do,"  thought  I ;  but  I  said  : 

"  It  looks  to  me  like  an  imitation  of  Lawrence.'* 

"  An  imitation  ?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  anybody 
but  Lawrence  could  have  painted  those  eyes  ?  Now,  do 
look  at  them  close.  Here,  get  upon  that  chair.  Oh  !  you 
won't  hurt  the  chair ;  besides,  it  isn't  mine.  Proof  enough 
for  you,  if  you  know  anything  of  Lawrence's  work,  and 
you  ought  to  know ;  besides,  look  here,  I  have  a  warranty 
that  I  got  with  it,  when  I  bought  it  in  Newcastle.  Here 
you  are.  Something  Effendi.  I  can't  quite  read  the  name 
— an  old  fellow  in  the  suite  of  one  of  those  swells  that 
Lawrence  painted  abroad." 

I  was  really  sorry  to  dispel  my  old  friend's  illusion;  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  Lawrence,  eh  ?"  said  I.  "  The  devil  a  bit;  I  painted  it 
myself.  It's  a  portrait  of  an  old  fellow  I  found  selling 
apples  in  the  street." 

Rivers  knew  me  too  well  to  doubt  what  I  said.  He  was 
dumfounded  for  a  moment.  He  then  said: 

"  Do — you  "  (a  pause  between  each  word) — "  mean  to 
say — that  you — painted — that — picture?  Why,  I  have 
made  at  least  six  copies  of  it,  and  sold  them  for  thirty 
shillings  apiece."  Then,  after  another  pause,  "All  I  have 
got  to  say  is,  that  the  sooner  you  paint  some  more  pictures 
like  it,  the  better,  for  it  goes  a  deuced  sight  beyond  any- 
thing of  yours  that  I  have  ever  seen." 

After  this  dreadful  blow  Rivers  confessed  that  he  could 
no  longer  bear  the  sight  of  his  Lawrence.  He  soon  sold 
it;  and  the  subject,  a  very  sore  one  to  him,  was  never  re- 
curred to  again. 


THE    BEARDED    MODEL.  341 

Ennis  never  became  what  is  called  a  regular  model. 
He  was  easily  offended;  and  a  refusal  to  buy  an  unreason- 
able quantity  of  apples,  or  a  doubt  expressed  of  their  ex- 
cellence, would  produce  a  prompt  refusal  to  sit  on  any 
terms. 

Douglas  Cowper,  who  was  far  ahead  of  the  rest  of  us, 
spoiled  the  old  man  very  much.  He  overpaid  him,  and 
made  himself  ill  with  oranges  and  apples ;  but  what  was 
most  delightful  to  the  vain  old  creature,  was  the  defer- 
ence which  Cowper  pretended  to  pay  to  his  criticisms, 
affecting  to  tone  down  here,  and  brighten  there,  under 
the  direction  of  the  aged  critic. 

It  was  in  the  days  of  Ennis  that  I  attempted  my  first 
composition.  His  venerable  appearance,  as  I  have  said 
elsewhere,  suggested  Scott's  "  Last  Minstrel,"  and  a  dread- 
ful minstrel  I  made  of  him — the  wicked  old  man  jeering 
at  my  efforts,  and  throwing  Cowper  at  my  head  constantly. 

He  never  pronounced  a  name  correctly.  I  was  "  Thrift," 
Cowper  was  "  Cowpin,"  Bridges  was  "  Bridgen,"and  so  on. 

"  Why,  you've  made  me  look  a  hundred  ;  and  I  ain't  as 
ugly  as  that,  I  know.  Jest  you  see  what  Cowpin  done  of 
me  in  his  piece."  (He  called  our  works  "pieces"  gener- 
ally, "  picture  "  sometimes.) 

I  had  but  just  completed  my  "Minstrel,"  when  the  old 
man  died.  His  great-granddaughter,  who  always  accom- 
panied him  in  his  latter  days  to  "  Common  Garden,"  told 
me  that  Ennis  stopped  suddenly  on  his  homeward  journey 
one  morning,  put  down  his  basket,  and  said,  "My  lass, 
I'm  struck  with  death  !" 

He  managed  to  crawl  feebly  home,  lay  down  on  his  bed, 
and  in  a  few  hours  he  was  dead. 

I  shall  not  let  the  fear  of  being  charged  with  blowing 
my  own  trumpet  deter  me  from  relating  here  the  ultimate 
fate  of  my  friend  Rivers'  picture,  "  Ennis  Effendi."  The 
public  became  slowly  aware  of  his  merits,  and  a  bold  con- 
noisseur gave  between  forty  and  fifty  guineas  for  him  at 
Christie's,  where  he  bore  the  real  name  of  his  author,  and 
he  is  now  settled  in  perpetuity — for  he  is  an  heirloom  in 
a  fine  mansion  near  Grosvenor  Square,  with  his  history 
recorded  on  his  back. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"THE   KOAD   TO   RUIN." 

MY  Italian  trip  is  over.  A  rapid  run  to  Paris  via  Tu- 
rin, a  sight  of  the  Salon  Exhibition — and  a  sorry  sight  it 
was — and  I  find  myself  at  home  and  at  work  again.  My 
foreign  travel  may  be  credited,  or  discredited,  with  two 
pictures — one,  the  more  important,  being  a  subject  sug- 
gested by  a  visit  to  the  dungeons  below  the  doge's  pal- 
ace ;  the  other  by  a  sudden  attack  made  upon  me  one 
morning  by  a  flower-seller,  when  I  was  taking  my  usual 
early  walk  on  the  Cascine  at  Naples.  Before  I  could  re- 
cover from  my  surprise,  my  young  assailant  had  seized 
me  by  my  coat-collar  and  planted  in  one  of  its  button- 
holes a  bright  little  nosegay.  Remonstrance  was  out  of 
the  question.  I  must  ransom  myself,  and  I  did  so  by  pay- 
ing a  price  which,  judging  from  the  smile  with  which  it 
was  received,  and  the  "  Thank  you,  excellenza,"  was  per- 
fectly satisfactory.  At  last,  thought  I,  here  is  a  subject — 
trifling  enough — by  which  I  can  fulfil  my  long-standing 
promise  to  my  old  Scottish  friend,  who,  as  my  readers 
may  remember,  bargained  for  a  picture,  the  important 
feature  of  which  must  be  my  own  portrait ;  and  my  like- 
ness is  "  now  added  " — to  quote  Madame  Tussaud — to  a 
"  chamber  of  horrors,"  or  a  charming  collection,  as  the  taste 
and  judgment  of  beholders  may  determine.  The  more 
important  picture  was  a  more  serious  effort.  No  thought- 
ful visitor  to  those  dreadful  dungeons  in  Venice  can  fail 
to  people  them  with  imaginary  victims,  political  and  so- 
cial. My  thoughts  took  the  shape  of  an  unfounded  charge 
of  social  crime,  of  which  a  beautiful  woman  should  be 
the  victim.  A  monk  stands  in  the  narrow  passage  close 
to  the  window  of  her  cell,  at  which  he  attends  to  hear  the 
innocent  prisoner's  confession.  The  lady,  whose  patrician 


"THE  ROAD  TO  EUIN."  343 

dress  proclaims  her  rank,  seizes  the  bars,  and,  with  her 
face  pressed  against  them,  pours  into  the  ear  of  the  monk, 
not  a  confession,  but  a  passionate  protest  of  her  inno- 
cence, together  with  an  imploring  appeal  for  deliverance. 
The  confessor  listens  with  a  mixed  expression  of  incredu- 
lity, sympathy,  and  helplessness  ;  knowing  too  well  how 
slight  are  the  chances  of  innocence  escaping,  when  Italian 
power  and  passion  have  determined  to  punish.  I  had  ar- 
ranged my  composition,  settled  the  position  and  attitude 
of  the  monk,  and  progressed  to  my  satisfaction  with  the 
female  figure,  when  I  found  myself  in  trouble  for  the 
monk.  I  was  refused  a  model  from  a  monastery  in  Lon- 
don, and  at  my  wits'  end,  when  a  strange  event  occurred. 
My  readers  will  find  in  my  story  of  "  The  Pious  Model " — 
in  a  former  chapter  of  these  reminiscences — how  he  went 
to  Australia  and  established  a  store  for  the  sale  of  relig- 
ious literature  at  Ballarat.  From  the  day  of  my  receiving 
Mr.  Bredman's  letter  containing  that  interesting  announce- 
ment, over  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  silence  had  passed, 
so  far  as  any  intelligence  of  that  worthy  had  reached  me. 
My  surprise  may  be  imagined  when  my  servant  informed 
me  that  "  a  person  of  the  name  of  Bredman,  who  says  he 
sat  to  you  a  long  time  ago,  would  like  to  see  you."  "  Let 
him  in,"  said  I,  and  in  came  my  pious  friend.  The  five- 
and-twenty  years  had  scarcely  touched  him.  Not  a  streak 
of  gray  in  his  shiny  black  hair,  hardly  a  wrinkle  added 
to  his  Chadband  face;  but  his  outward  man,  how  changed! 
Instead  of  the  greasy  fustian  jacket  of  old,  and  the  trou- 
sers patched  to  such  an  extent  that  the  original  material 
was  difficult  to  distinguish,  the  whole  man  was  sheathed 
in  a  suit  of  shining  black.  My  old  model  offered  me  his 
hand,  and  I  took  it  rejoicing,  for  I  had  found  a  model  for 
my  monk. 

"  Well,  Bredman,  I  am  really  glad  to  see  you.  I  need 
not  ask  you  how  you  are  ;  but  what  does  that  suit  of  black 
mean  ?  You  are  not  wearing  it  in  mourning  for  any  one, 
I  hope." 

"  Yes,  I  am,  sir  ;  I've  come  to  England  to  take  a  legacy. 
Two  hundred  pounds  comes  to  me  from  my  father-in-law; 
very  old  man,  just  dead." 


344  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Your  wife's  father  ?"  said  I,  laying  peculiar  stress  on 
the  word  "  wife." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Bredraan,  with  the  old  smile. 

"  Large  family,  Bredman  ?"  I  inquired,  also  with  my 
old  smile. 

"  Well,  that's  as  may  be,  sir ;  I  think  it  was  large  enough 
— nine  of  'em.  We  lost  two — seven  left." 

"  Why,  this  is  worse  than  the  first  wife,  Bredman — eh  ?" 

No  reply,  but  a  broader  smile. 

"  Now  is  this  little  account  true,  or  is  it  like  the  other? 
Is  there  a  real  wife  and  family  this  time,  Bredman  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  upon  my  word,  it  is  all  right  this  time.  My 
sons  are  in  the  Bush,  doing  well,  all  of  'em  "  ("  I  trust  not 
bushranging,"  was  my  mental  comment)  ;  "  my  daughters 
married  pretty  middling,  too." 

"And  you — what  has  been  your  business ?" 

"  Oh,  one  thing  and  another.  I  was  town-crier  at  Mel- 
bourne for  some  years  ;  and  now  I  am  under-steward  on 
board  an  Australian  liner  :  attends  to  the  ladies  and  gents 
— pays  well  when  they're  ill ;  cleans  boots  and  such.  But 
now  I  shall  be  in  London  for  some  months  till  this  law  busi- 
ness is  settled,  and  should  be  very  glad  of  some  sitting." 

An  engagement  was  made.  Bredman  proved  that  his 
old  qualities  as  a  model  had  not  degenerated ;  nor  did  I 
find  him  attempting  any  of  his  old  tricks.  I  employed 
him  for  other  pictures,  and  he  makes  one  among  the  bet- 
ting-men in  the  picture  I  afterwards  painted  of  "  The 
Royal  Enclosure  at  Ascot,"  one  of  the  series  called  "  The 
Road  to  Ruin." 

I  christened  my  Venetian  picture  "  Under  the  Doge's 
Palace,"  and  it  was  exhibited  in  1876.  My  other  contri- 
butions to  the  Exhibition  of  1876  were:  "A  Scene  from 
the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ' — The  Squire  teaching  the  Young 
Ladies  Picquet  and  the  Boys  to  Box,"  which  illustrates 
the  following  quotation  :  "  The  intervals  between  conver- 
sation were  employed  in  teaching  my  daughters  picquet, 
or  sometimes  in  setting  my  two  little  ones  to  box — to 
make  them  sharp,  as  he  called  it."  An  illustration  of 
Moliere,  and  a  small  picture  called  "  The  Lovers'  Seat," 
completed  my  list. 


"THE  ROAD  TO  RUIN."  345 

About  this  time  a  committee  was  formed  to  make  ar- 
rangements for  the  production  of  a  statue  of  Lord  Byron, 
to  be  paid  for  by  public  subscriptions,  and  placed  in  a 
prominent  position  in  London.  I  was  asked  to  serve  on 
the  committee,  and,  with  my  friends  Elmore  and  Woolner, 
formed  the  professional  element  in  it.  Our  brother-com- 
mitteemen  vrere  all  distinguished  individuals;  by  far  the 
most  interesting  to  me  being  Trelawney,  a  very  old  and 
striking-looking  man,  the  well-known  friend  of  Byron. 
The  committee  met  in  the  classic  rooms  of  Mr.  Murray, 
in  Albemarle  Street,  the  courteous  owner  being  also  a 
member.  To  see  the  rooms  so  often  honored  by  the  pres- 
ence of  such  men  as  Byron,  Scott,  and  Moore — to  say 
nothing  of  so  many  only  less  great — and  to  be  surrounded 
by  their  portraits,  was  very  delightful  to  me  ;  but  to  be 
talked  to  by  Trelawney  was  more  delightful  still.  He  sat 
next  to  me  on  one  occasion,  and  talked  much  of  Byron  ; 
frequently  mentioning  the  elder  Murray,  whose  son  was 
well  within  earshot,  as  a  capital  fellow,  liberal  to  a  de- 
gree, and  in  Byron's  case  he  found  his  honesty  pay,  "  for 
Byron  told  me,"  said  Trelawney,  "  that  all  he  had  received 
from  Murray  was  between  twenty  and  thirty  thousand 
pounds — nearer  twenty  than  thirty ;  and  that  Murray  made 
over  seventy  thousand  by  Byron.  Not  bad  business  that 
—eh  ?" 

The  result  of  the  committee's  work  is  known  to  all. 
Being  in  a  minority — an  adverse  minority,  indeed — the 
professional  members  of  the  committee  can  claim  no  credit 
for  the  selection  of  the  sculptor,  nor  are  they  to  be  blamed 
if  the  statue  is  considered  unsatisfactory.  We  were  out- 
voted by  gentlemen  who  were  God-gifted  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  art  which  all  our  lives'  devotion  had  failed  to  give 
us — in  their  opinion.  Disraeli  said  "the  critics  are  those 
who  have  failed  in  literature  and  art."  With  the  judges 
of  literary  work  I  have  no  concern;  but  in  respect  of  those 
whose  business  it  is  to  write  public  criticisms  on  art,  I 
have  to  say  that  few  of  the  gentlemen  or  ladies  who  praise 
or  condemn  modern  painters  and  sculptors  have  practised 
art  in  any  form,  so  the  charge  of  their  having  failed  in  it 
falls  to  the  ground.  They  are  people  of  some  literarv 
15* 


346  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

attainment,  as  is  evident  by  their  writing.  But  the  mys- 
tery attending  their  wonderful  knowledge  of  art  in  all  its 
forms  is  one  of  those  things — if  I  may  use  the  words  of 
that  eminent  peer,  Lord  Dundreary — "  that  no  fellow  can 
understand."  When  I  bring  to  my  memory  the  many  in- 
stances of  the  diffidence  in  expressing  opinion  on  art  so 
often  witnessed  by  myself  in  such  men  as  Landseer,  Turn- 
er, and  others  nearly  as  eminent,  I  cannot  help  being 
awe-struck  by  the  laying  down  of  the  law  by  our  modern 
experts.  Infallibility  is  not  monopolized  by  the  pope  ; 
but  what  can  be  said  for  a  public  which  is  led  by  printed 
opinion  expressed  by  persons  who  would  not  be  listened  to 
for  a  moment  if  their  efficiency  as  judges  could  be  gauged. 
If  we  could  be  judged  by  our  peers,  as  literary  men  are, 
we  should  be  profited,  in  all  probability.  What  would 
writers  say  if  a  body  of  artists  were  emploj^ed  to  direct 
public  taste  in  literary  matters  ?  Surely  the  two  positions 
are  equally  absurd.  I  must  now  return  to  my  own  doings. 
For  a  long  time  I  had  the  desire  to  paint  a  story  in  a 
series  of  pictures,  and  I  began  to  make  chalk-studies  of  the 
different  groups  for  the  five  pictures  called  "The  Road 
to  Ruin."  Without  any  pretension  to  do  my  work  on  Ho- 
garthian  lines,  I  thought  I  could  show  some  of  the  evils  of 
gambling;  my  idea  being  a  kind  of  gambler's  progress, 
avoiding  the  satirical  vein  of  Hogarth,  for  which  I  knew 
myself  to  be  unfitted.  I  desired  to  trace  the  career  of  a 
youth  from  his  college  days  to  his  ruin  and  death — a 
victim  to  one  of  the  most  fatal  vices.  In  the  first  scene 
my  hero  is  entertaining  a  party  of  friends  in  his  college- 
room,  who  have  played  at  cards  all  night.  One  of  them, 
perhaps  the  youngest,  has  fallen  asleep  on  a  sofa,  while 
the  rest  are  still  engaged  in  furious  play.  The  window- 
curtain  is  drawn  aside  by  one  of  the  non-players,  and  the 
dawn  is  evident  by  the  lighting  up  of  the  towers  of  an 
opposite  college  by  the  earliest  rays  of  the  sun.  Another 
guest  blows  out  a  candle  no  longer  needed.  In  the  second 
picture  my  youth  has  grown  to  manhood,  and  is  engaged 
in  far  more  dangerous  play  than  three-card  loo;  for  he  is 
the  centre  of  attraction  in  the  Royal  Enclosure  at  Ascot  to 
a  horde  of  betting-men,  who  are  offering  him  chance  after 


"THE  HOAD  TO  BUIN."  347 

chance  of  immediate  or  prospective  ruin.  That  they  have 
succeeded  is  made  evident  by  the  third  of  the  series, 
where  the  young  man  is  seen  in  his  ancestral  home — with 
his  wife  and  children — in  the  hands  of  bailiffs  who  have 
arrested  him  for  debt.  An  interval,  more  or  less  long,  is 
supposed  to  elapse  between  the  third  and  fourth  acts,  when 
wo  tind  him  away  from  his  native  land  endeavoring  to 
earn  a  subsistence  by  writing  plays;  while  his  wife  devotes 
herself  to  painting  in  water-colors  in  the  hope  of  selling 
her  work,  and  thus  adding  to  their  slender  means.  A 
French  landlady  presses  for  her  rent,  the  wife  appeals  to 
the  woman,  and  the  husband  is  in  despair.  Matters  are 
supposed  to  go  from  bad  to  worse,  till  at  last,  driven  to 
desperation,  my  luckless  hero  is  seen  in  the  fifth  and  last 
picture  fastening  the  door  of  a  miserable  attic,  with  an 
expression  on  his  face  that,  assisted  by  a  pistol  ready  to 
his  hand,  admits  of  but  one  interpretation — death  by  his 
own  hand.  For  these  different  pictures  careful  chalk- 
drawings  were  made,  groups  rearranged,  compositions 
changed;  in  fact,  all  the  thinking  part  of  the  business  was 
settled  before  the  small  oil-sketches  were  made.  With 
this  preliminary  care,  alterations  in  the  final  pictures  are 
avoided,  time  is  actually  saved,  and  the  work  of  the  artist, 
undisturbed  by  changes — unavoidable  without  this  care — 
is  more  likely  to  endure  than  those  so  often  commenced 
without  due  study  and  precaution. 

Being  a  worshipper  of  Shelley,  and  having  read  every- 
thing respecting  him  that  came  in  my  way,  it  was  with 
great  pleasure  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  his  son, 
Sir  Percy  Shelley,  and  his  delightful  wife,  whose  invitation 
to  their  house  at  Boscombe  I  eagerly  accepted.  It  was 
not  a  matter  of  surprise  to  find  a  room  full  of  Shelley 
relics:  there  is  the  wave-washed  ^Eschylus  found  upon  the 
drowned  poet's  body;  likenesses  of  him  in  abundance;  locks 
of  his  fair  hair;  and  much  of  his  manuscript,  adorned  here 
and  there  with  pen-and-ink  sketches  which  show  great 
artistic  power.  There  is  the  portrait  of  his  wife,  the 
daughter  of  Godwin,  a  rather  ideal  likeness  of  a  lady  I 
can  well  remember  seeing  at  one  of  the  soirees  at  the  Royal 
Academy;  another  of  her  mother,  by  Opie;  and  one  also 


348  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

of  Godwin,  by  Northcote.  I  can  trace  a  likeness  to  the 
poet  in  his  son,  who  seems  to  inherit  his  father's  love  of 
the  sea.  It  was  at  Sir  Percy's  table  that  I  met  Mr.  Grant- 
ley  Berkeley,  a  very  original  and  amusing  person,  whose 
bachelor  home,  not  far  from  Boscombe,  was  so  contrived 
as  to  gratify  its  owner's  sporting  tastes,  and  also  the  tastes 
of  those  interested  in  past  times,  when  the  Berkeleys 
played  conspicuous  parts  in  their  country's  history.  Here 
is  the  bed  from  Berkeley  Castle  in  which  Edward  II.  was 
done  to  an  awful  doath;  and  round  about  the  room  were 
relics  almost  as  interesting. 

One  life  only  stopped  the  way  to  wealth  and  title  for 
Mr.  Grantley  Berkeley,  the  direct  heir  to  the  earldom  of 
Fitzhardinge;  death  came  to  the  aspirant,  who  died  as  he 
had  lived,  plain  Grantley  Berkeley. 

Before  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Shelleys  I  had 
done  a  slight  sketch  of  one  of  the  love-scenes  that  took 
place  between  the  poet  and  Mary  Godwin  in  old  St.  Pan- 
eras  Churchyard.  I  found  the  graveyard  still  in  existence, 
and  I  found  a  tombstone  that  might  have  been  the  one 
on  which  so  many  passionate  words  were  spoken;  and  on 
it  I  placed  my  figures.  The  Boscombe  portraits  were  my 
authority  for  the  likenesses,  but  I  failed  to  realize  my  own 
idea  of  either  of  the  personages.  It  would  require  powers 
far  beyond  mine  to  do  justice  to  the  theme  I  had  chosen. 
I  did  my  best,  and  subjected  myself  to  a  proverb  which  I 
fear  can  be  justly  applied  to  my  performance. 

In  the  year  1877  I  did  not  contribute  to  the  Annual  Ex- 
hibition; the  whole  of  that  year  being  taken  up  in  inces- 
sant work  at  the  pictures  of  "  The  Road  to  Ruin."  The 
difficulties  in  respect  of  models  and  material  were  in- 
creased by  the  variety  of  men,  women,  and  matter  required. 
Genius,  as  everybody  knows,  is  often  accompanied  by 
grievous  failings  in  one  form  or  other;  and  the  greater 
the  genius  the  more  glaring  are  the  shortcomings.  The 
artist's  model  in  his  or  her  highest  development — for 
which  genius  is  but  a  mild  term — is  not  exempt  from 
serious  drawbacks.  He  "  drinks,"  perhaps,  and  an  indul- 
gence in  that  luxury  is  apt  to  engender  forgetf ulness  of 
engagements;  or  he  comes  to  his  work  one  hour  late,  but 


"THE    ROAD    TO    RUIN."  349 

before  he  has  recovered  from  a  previous  night's  debauch: 
he  is  then  either  gloomy,  with  a  tendency  to  impertinence, 
or  he  chatters  till  he  distracts  the  unhappy  man  whose 
time  has  been  wasted,  and  whose  efforts  to  paint  from  a 
restless,  fidgety  creature  leave  a  deplorable  result.  No 
matter,  you  have  begun  from  the  man,  and  you  must  finish 
from  him;  you  are  his  victim,  and  you  must  endure  and 
suffer  much.  But  the  worm  turns  at  last,  and  then,  having 
completed  your  figure,  you  remark: 

"  Now,  Green,  attend  to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  You 
are  a  perfect  genius  at  sitting  when  you  are  all  right;  you 
tell  capital  stories,  and  you  are  generally  respectful,  but 
you  drink." 

"  Drink,  sir !"  interrupts  Mr.  Green  ;  "  why,  I  am  a  tee- 
totaler ;  I  took  the  pledge  some  time  since  !" 

"  Very  likely,  and  you  most  certainly  broke  it  before 
you  came  to  me  the  other  day.  Now  if  you  come  to  me 
in  that  condition  again,  or  if  you  fail  once  more  in  being 
punctual  to  the  time  named,  you  may  bid  farewell  to  any 
employment  by  me." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  says  Green;  but  it  was  not  all  right,  for 
the  annoyance  was  repeated.  I  immediately  sent  Green 
about  his  business,  and  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  I 
here  tell  one  of  his  stories,  which  was  new  to  me. 

A  Scottish  clergyman  preached  a  series  of  sermons  on 
the  Miracles,  and  in  one  of  them  he  took  for  his  text  the 
swallowing  of  the  prophet  Jonah  by  the  whale.  The 
reverend  gentleman  either  took  exception  to  the  transla- 
tion of  the  word  "  whale,"  or  he  affected  to  do  so,  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  his  knowledge  of  varieties  of  fish; 
for  after  describing  several,  and  showing  in  each  case, 
from  the  construction  of  the  creature,  that  swallowinjj  a 

'  O 

human  being  was  a  matter  of  impossibility,  he  then — evi- 
dently leading  up  to  the  usually  received  explanation  of 
the  miracle — discussed  the  shark,  or  the  s/iairk,  as  he  called 
it,  as  being  the  fish  so  highly  honored.  "  But  no,"  said 
the  clergyman,  it  couldna  be  a  shairk;  the  teeth  of  the 
creetur  would  have  destroyed — " 

"Ech,  meenister,"  cried  out  an  old  woman  who  was  sit- 
ting below  the  pulpit,  "  wasna  the  beast  a  whale  ?" 


350  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"A  whale,  a  whale,  ye  blethering  auld  deevil!  what  do 
ye  know  about  it  ?  What  do  ye  mean  by  taking  the  Word 
of  God  out  of  my  mouth?" 

Mr.  Green  stood  to  me  for  many  figures  in  "  The  Road 
to  Ruin,"  and  I  parted  from  him  with  real  regret.  I  was 
obliged  to  discharge  another  of  the  higher  order  of  model 
for  a  very  different  reason.  Mr.  Gloster  was  a  young, 
good-looking  fellow,  who  wrote  an  excellent  hand — to  use 
a  common  phrase — was  well-read,  intelligent,  and  incom- 
prehensible. I  am  convinced  the  man  was  perfectly 
honest  and  sober;  and  the  tone  of  his  voice,  his  manner 
— when  he  was  not  disgustingly  familiar — and  his  conver- 
sation, were  those  of  a  gentleman ;  and  how  it  happened 
that  he  took  up  the  business  of  a  professional  model,  in 
preference  to  so  many  for  which  he  was  undoubtedly  well 
fitted,  I  know  not.  He  was  very  ready  in  assuming  any 
expression  or  attitude  that  was  explained  to  him,  but  he 
very  much  objected  to  difficult  positions;  and  after  endur- 
ing a  pose  a  little  painful  for  a  short  time  he  would  say, 
with  a  deep  groan: 

"This  is  awful!  Oh,  you  needn't  laugh;  just  try  it 
yourself,  and  see  how  you  like  it!" 

The  value  of  Mr.  Gloster  may  be  imagined  when  such 
an  uncommon  address  as  the  above  was  endured  patiently. 
The  man  put  himself  on  a  level  with  me  at  once,  and  at 
times  his  insolence  was  very  difficult  to  bear.  He  told 
me  he  had  no  notion  of  social  distinction — everybody  was 
as  good  as  anybody  else;  and  he  considered  himself  rather 
better.  Artists  wouldn't  employ  him  if  they  didn't  want 
him;  and  he  shouldn't  go  to  them  if  he  didn't  want  them; 
and  he  didn't  see  what  obligation  there  was  on  either  side. 

"  Was  he  often  without  employment  ?" 

"Yes,  he  was;  and  then  he  starved.  If  he  got  any 
money,  he  would  spend  it  and  have  a  jolly  good  dinner, 
and  go  without  dinner  next  day." 

"  Wasn't  that  rather  foolish  ?" 

"No;  and  if  it  was,  what  had  anybody  got  to  do  with 
it? — he  didn't  care,"  and  so  on. 

The  man  tried  me  dreadfully;  but — there  again,  I  had 
begun  several  figures  from  him — he  looked  the  gentleman, 


"THE  ROAD  TO  BUIN."  351 

and  wore  the  clothes  I  provided  with  an  air  impossi- 
ble to  the  ordinary  model,  so  I  bore  with  him  for  a  long 
time.  It  is  my  habit  to  employ  the  same  model  all  day, 
providing  him  with  dinner  at  noon;  I  gave  instructions 
that  sufficient  food  should  always  be  supplied.  No  doubt 
the  supply,  as  well  as  the  kind  of  food,  varied;  but  it  was 
very  difficult  to  please  Mr.  Gloster. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  "this  is  a  poor 
reward  for  standing  in  that  infernal  attitude  all  the  morn- 
ing. The  servant  must  take  me  for  a  blackbird." 

This  pretty  speech  because  there  was  rather  less  meat 
than  usual.  The  last  feather  that  kills  the  camel  came  at 
last,  and  it  was  in  this  way: 

My  servant  brought  Gloster  a  large  plateful  of  cold 
veal  for  his  dinner.  I  saw  it,  and  said: 

"  Well,  they  have  given  you  enough  to  eat  this  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  there's  a  lot  of  it.  I  hate  veal, 
particularly  cold  veal!  If  there  had  been  anything  I  like 
down-stairs,  I  should  have  had  little  enough  of  it.  I  say" 
(to  the  servant,  who  was  leaving  the  room), "  can't  you 
get  me  some  bacon,  or  pickles,  or  something  to  give  this 
stuff  a  relish  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "I  can't." 

"Now,"  said  I,  "  Mr.  Gloster,  do  you  know  that  if  you 
had  to  deal  with  some  painters  they  would  have  turned 
you  out  of  their  rooms  for  such  a  speech  as  that  ?" 

"  Ah!  I  dare  say  they  are  precious  fools,  some  of  them; 
but  you  are  not  one." 

He  was  mistaken — I  was  ;  and  from  that  day  to  this  I 
have  never  set  eyes  on  Mr.  Gloster  ;  though  I  hear  of  him 
occasionally,  and  his  reign  everywhere  seems  short.  A 
friend  of  mine  told  me  the  following  little  anecdote: 

A  chop  was  sent  to  Mr.  Gloster,  while  my  friend  took 
his  own  luncheon  in  his  dining-room.  When  the  servant 
placed  the  food  before  the  model  he  asked  her  very  polite- 
ly if  she  had  a  pair  of  spectacles. 

"  No,"  said  the  girl ;  "  what  should  I  do  with  spec- 
tacles?" 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure  !  Well,  now,  what  age  may  the  cook 
be?" 


352  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply. 

"  "Well,  would  you  mind  asking  her  if  she  could  oblige 
me  with  a  pair?  I  wouldn't  keep  them  a  minute." 

The  message  was  conveyed  to  the  cook,  who  indignant- 
ly said: 

"  Drat  the  man!  What  does  he  think  I  want  with  spec- 
tacles ?  I  have  got  no  such  thing!  Go  and  ask  him  what 
he  wants  spectacles  for." 

"The  cook  doesn't  wear  spectacles,"  said  the  girl,  ad- 
dressing the  model,  "and  there  ain't  such  a  thing  in  tho 
house;  and  she  wishes  to  know  what  you  want  spectacles 
for." 

"  Well,"  said  Gloster,  looking  intently  into  his  plate  (on 
which,  my  friend  said,  there  was  a  small  chop),  "  I  want 
to  see  what  this  is;  it's  undiscoverable  with  the  naked 
eye  !" 

My  experience  of  the  ladies  who  honor  us  by  sitting  is 
extensive.  As  a  rule,  they  are  all  that  could  be  desired — 
patient,  kindly,  long-suffering,  and  well-behaved.  I  con- 
fess to  a  strong  liking  for  many  of  my  models,  male  and 
female.  I  am  grateful  to  them  for  valuable  assistance,  and 
never  in  my  life  have  I  had  the  least  "  difficulty  "  with  the 
greater  number  of  them;  indeed,  instances  of  misbehavior 
among  the  females  are  very  rare  indeed,  and  they  usually 
consist  of  unpunctuality,  which  is  a  deadly  sin.  The  kind- 
ness of  lady  friends  rendered  the  employment  of  the  pro- 
fessional model  almost  needless  in  the  pictures  of  "The. 
Road  to  Ruin."  These  works  were  exhibited  in  1878,  and, 
judging  by  the  public  attention  they  received,  may  be  said 
to  have  been  successful.  The  policeman  and  the  rail  were 
again  required;  and  I  received  many  compliments,  and  no 
doubt  much  abuse.  The  copyright  was  purchased  by  the 
Art  Union  of  London,  and  the  pictures  were  etched  by 
one  of  the  greatest  professors  of  that  art  in  France;  but 
from  some  cause  or  other  (the  fault,  probably,  was  in  the 
pictures)  the  etchings  were  not  successful. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE     PONT II  ILL     STOEY. 

TUB  late  Mr.  Phillips,  tbe  well-known  Bond  Street  auc- 
tioneer, was  an  intimate  friend  of  my  uncle  Scaife's,  at 
whose  house  I  frequently  met  him ;  and  though  I  was  a 
very  young  student  fifty  years  ago,  and  quite  incapable  of 
properly  appreciating  fine  works  of  art,  I  often,  at  Mr. 
Phillips'  suggestion,  visited  his  rooms  whenever  great 
collections  were  dispersed  there.  Hearing  that  a  Holy 
Family  by  Raphael  was  to  be  sold,  I  went  to  see  it,  and 
though  it  was  of  doubtful  authenticity,  I  thought  it  was  a 
very  fine  picture.  I  was  discussing  its  merits — with  all 
the  ignorant  assurance  of  youth — with  Mr.  Phillips  in  his 
office,  when  an  elderly  gentleman  walked  briskly  past  the 
door  on  his  way  to  the  gallery.  He  was  a  short  man, 
dressed  in  a  green  coat  with  brass  buttons,  leather  breeches, 
and  top-boots,  and  his  hair  was  powdered.  "  That  is  Mr. 
Beckford,"  said  Phillips.  I  had  just  read  "  Vathek,"  and 
was  very  curious  to  see  the  author  of  it;  so  I  rushed  up- 
stairs to  the  auction-rooms,  and  found  the  great  little  man 
studying  the  so-called  Raphael.  I  stood  close  to  the  pict- 
ure and  studied  Mr.  Beckford,  who  proceeded  to  criticise 
the  work  in  language  of  which  my  respectable  peu  can 
give  my  readers  but  a  faint  idea.  It  must  not  be  thought 
that  the  remarks  were  addressed  to  me  or  to  anybody  but  the 
speaker  himself.  "That  d — d  thing  a  Raphael!  Great 
heavens !  think  of  that  now !  Can  there  be  such  d — d 
fools  as  to  believe  that  a  Raphael !  What  a  d — d  fool 
I  was  to  come  here!"  and  without  a  glance  at  other  pict- 
ures the  critic  departed. 

It  was  many  years  after  this  that  a  distant  connection 
of  mine,  who,  I  must  premise,  was  a  person  of  an  inquiring 
mind,  found  .himself  involved  in  a  curious  adventure.  My 


354  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

relative  had  been  in  business,  from  which  he  retired  at  an 
unusually  early  time  of  life,  having  acquired  a  handsome 
competence.  He  was  married,  but  childless,  and  having 
bought  a  house  in  the  salubrious  city  of  Bath,  he  retired 
there,  and  passed  his  time  in  reading  and  in  finding  out 
everything  he  could  about  all  the  people  in  the  place. 
There  was  one  house,  and  that  the  most  interesting  of  all, 
that  shut  its  door  against  my  inquisitive  friend  and  every- 
body else.  Fonthill  Abbey,  or  Fonthill  Splendor,  as  it 
was  sometimes  called,  situated  a  few  miles  from  Bath,  was 
a  treasure-house  of  beauty.  Every  picture  was  said  to  be 
a  gem,  and  the  gardens  were  unequalled  by  any  in  Eng- 
land, the  whole  being  guarded  by  a  dragon  in  the  form  of 
Mr.  Beckford.  "  Not  only,"  says  an  authority,  "  had  the 
art-treasures  of  that  princely  place  been  sealed  against  the 
public,  but  the  park  itself — known  by  rumor  as  a  beauti- 
ful spot — had  for  several  years  been  enclosed  by  a  most 
formidable  wall,  about  seven  miles  in  circuit,  twelve  feet 
high,  and  crowned  by  a  chevaux-de-frise"  These  formi- 
dable obstacles  my  distant  cousin  undertook  to  surmount, 
and  he  laid  a  wager  of  a  considerable  sum  that  he  would 
walk  in  the  gardens,  and  even  penetrate  into  the  house 
itself. 

Having  nothing  better  to  do,  he  spent  many  an  anxious 
hour  in  watching  the  great  gate  in  the  wall,  in  the  hope 
that  by  some  inadvertence  it  might  be  left  open  and  un- 
guarded ;  and  one  day  that  happy  moment  arrived.  The 
porter  was  ill,  and  his  wife  opened  the  gate  to  a  tradesman, 
who,  after  depositing  his  goods  at  the  lodge  (no  butcher 
or  baker  was  permitted  to  go  to  the  abbey  itself),  retired, 
leaving  the  gate  open,  relying  probably  upon  the  woman's 
shutting  it.  Quick  as  thought  my  relative  passed  the 
awful  portals,  and  made  his  way  across  the  park.  Guided 
by  the  high  tower — called  "  Beckford's  Folly  " — my  in- 
quisitive friend  made  his  way  to  the  gardens,  and  not 
being  able  immediately  to  find  the  entrance,  was  leaning 
on  a  low  wall  that  shut  the  gardens  from  the  park,  and 
taking  his  fill  of  delight  at  the  gorgeous  display — the 
gardens  being  in  full  beauty — when  a  man  with  a  spud 
in  his  hand  —  perhaps  the  head-gardener  —  approached, 


THE    FONTHILL   STORY.  355 

and  asked  the  intruder  how  he  came  there,  and  what  he 
wanted. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  found  the  gate  in  the  wall  open,  and 
having  heard  a  great  deal  about  this  beautiful  place,  I 
thought  I  should  like  to  see  it." 

"Ah!"  said  the  gardener,  "you  would,  would  you? 
"Well,  you  can't  see  much  where  you  are.  Do  you  think 
you  could  manage  to  jump  over  the  wall  ?  If  you  can,  I 
will  show  you  the  gardens." 

My  cousin  looked  over  the  wall,  and  found  such  a  pal- 
pable obstacle — in  the  shape  of  a  deep  ditch — on  the  other 
side  of  it,  that  he  wondered  at  the  proposal. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  the  ditch!  Well,  go  to  the  door;  you 
will  find  it  about  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  to  your  right, 
and  I  will  admit  you." 

In  a  very  short  time,  to  his  great  delight,  my  cousin 
found  himself  listening  to  the  learned  names  of  rare  plants 
and  inhaling  the  perfume  of  lovely  flowers.  Then  the 
fruit-gardens  and  hot-houses — "acres  of  them,"  as  he 
afterwards  declared — were  submitted  to  his  inspection. 
After  the  beauties  of  the  gardens  and  grounds  had  been 
thoroughly  explored,  and  the  wager  half  won,  the  inquisi- 
tive one's  pleasure  may  be  imagined  when  his  guide  said: 

"  Now,  would  you  like  to  see  the  house  and  its  contents  ? 
There  are  some  rare  things  in  it — fine  pictures  and  so  on. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  pictures  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  and  should,  above  all  things,  like  to  see 
those  of  which  I  have  heard  so  much ;  but  are  you  sure 
that  you  will  not  get  yourself  into  a  scrape  with  Mr.  Beck- 
ford  ?  I've  heard  he  is  so  very  particular." 

"  Oh,  no !"  said  the  gardener.  "  I  don't  think  Mr.  Beck- 
ford  will  mind  what  I  do.  You  see,  I  have  known  him 
all  my  life,  and  he  lets  me  do  pretty  well  as  I  like  here." 

"Then  I  shall  only  be  too  much  obliged." 

"  Follow  me,  then,"  said  the  guide. 

My  distant  cousin  was  really  a  man  of  considerable  taste 
and  culture,  a  great  lover  of  art,  with  some  knowledge  of 
the  old  masters  and  the  different  schools;  and  he  often 
surprised  his  guide,  who,  catalogue  in  hand,  named  the 
different  pictures  and  their  authors,  by  his  acute  and  often 


356  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

correct  criticisms.  So  intimate  was  his  acquaintance  with 
the  styles  of  some  of  the  different  painters,  that  he  was 
frequently  able  to  anticipate  his  guide's  information. 
"When  the  pictures  had  been  thoroughly  examined  there 
remained  bric-d-brac  of  all  kinds — costly  suits  of  armor, 
jewelry  of  all  ages,  bridal  coffers  beautifully  painted  by 
Italian  artists,  numbers  of  ancient  and  modern  musical 
instruments,  with  other  treasures,  all  to  be  carefully  and 
delightedly  examined,  till,  the  day  nearing  fast  towards 
evening,  the  visitor  prepared  to  depart,  and  was  com- 
mencing a  speech  of  thanks  in  his  best  manner,  when  the 
gardener  said,  looking  at  his  watch: 

"Why,  bless  me,  it's  five  o'clock!  ain't  you  hungry? 
You  must  stop  and  have  some  dinner." 

"  No,  really,  I  couldn't  think  of  taking  such  a  liberty. 
I  am  sure  Mr.  Beckford  would  be  offended." 

"  No,  he  wouldn't.  You  must  stop  and  dine  with  me ; 
I  am  Mr.  Beckford." 

My  far-off  cousin's  state  of  mind  may  be  imagined.  He 
had  won  his  wager,  and  he  was  asked,  actually  asked,  to 
dine  with  the  man  whose  name  was  a  terror  to  the  tourist, 
whose  walks  abroad  were  so  rare  that  his  personal  appear- 
ance was  unknown  to  his  neighbors.  What  a  thing  to 
relate  to  his  circle  at  Bath!  How  Mr.  Beckford  had  been 
belied,  to  be  sure!  The  dinner  was  magnificent,  served 
on  massive  plate — the  wines  of  the  rarest  vintage.  Rarer 
still  was  Mr.  Beckford's  conversation.  He  entertained  his 
guest  with  stories  of  Italian  travel,  with  anecdotes  of  the 
great  in  whose  society  he  had  mixed,  till  he  found  the 
shallowness  of  it;  in  short,  with  the  outpouring  of  a  mind 
of  great  power  and  thorough  cultivation.  My  cousin  was 
well-read  enough  to  be  able  to  appreciate  the  conversation 
and  contribute  to  it,  and  thus  the  evening  passed  delight- 
fully away.  Candles  were  lighted,  and  host  and  guest 
talked  till  a  fine  Louis  Quatorze  clock  struck  eleven.  Mr. 
Beckford  rose  and  left  the  room.  The  guest  drew  his 
chair  to  the  fire,  and  waited  the  return  of  his  host.  He 
thought  he  must  have  dozed,  for  he  started  to  find  the 
room  in  semi-darkness,  and  one  of  the  solemn  powdered 
footmen  putting  out  the  lights. 


THE   FONTHILL   STOEY.  357 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Beckford  ?"  said  my  cousin. 

"Mr.  Beckford  has  gone  to  bed,"  said  the  man,  as  he 
extinguished  the  last  candle. 

The  dining-room  door  was  open,  and  there  was  a  dim 
light  in  the  hall. 

"This  is  very  strange,"  said  my  cousin;  "I  expected 
Mr.  Beckford  back  again.  I  wished  to  thank  him  for  his 
hospitality." 

This  was  said  as  the  guest  followed  the  footman  to  the 
front-door.  That  functionary  opened  it  wide,  and  said: 

"Mr.  Beckford  ordered  me  to  present  his  compliments 
to  you,  sir,  and  I  am  to  say  that,  as  you  found  your  way 
into  Fonthill  Abbey  without  assistance,  you  may  find  your 
way  out  again  as  best  you  can;  and  he  hopes  you  will  take 
care  to  avoid  the  bloodhounds  that  are  let  loose  in  the  gar- 
dens every  night.  I  wish  you  good-evening.  No,  thank 
you,  sir ;  Mr.  Beckford  never  allows  vails." 

My  cousin  climbed  into  the  branches  of  the  first  tree 
that  promised  a  safe  shelter  from  the  dogs,  and  there  wait- 
ed for  daylight;  and  it  was  not  till  the  sun  showed  him- 
self that  he  made  his  way,  terror  attending  each  step, 
through  the  gardens  into  the  park,  and  so  to  Bath.  "  The 
wager  was  won,"  said  my  relative  ;  "  but  not  for  fifty  mill- 
ion times  the  amount  would  I  again  pass  such  a  night  as  I 
did  at  Fonthill  Abbey." 

I  am  in  a  position  to  assure  my  reader  that  this  story  of 
Fonthill  Abbey  is  absolutely  true. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"THE  RACE  FOB  WEALTH." 

As  I  approach  the  present  time  I  feel  a  difficulty  in 
speaking  of  my  own  work.  Indeed,  the  task  at  any  time 
is  not  an  agreeable  one;  but  it  is  made  easier  in  the  case 
of  pictures  which  have  long  taken  a  settled  place,  so  to 
speak,  in  public  estimation.  Time  was  required  to  effect 
that ;  and  time  must  pass,  and  a  good  deal  of  it,  before 
modern  work  can  be  estimated  at  its  true  value.  Notori- 
ety is  not  fame;  and  when  it  is  remembered  that  an  ob- 
scure artist,  called  Glover,  found  ready  sale  for  his  land- 
scapes, while  Gainsborough's  were  neglected  ;  that  Rom- 
ney  fell  out  of  fashion  while  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power ; 
that  Constable  only  sold  his  works  with  difficulty,  and  at 
very  small  prices  ;  and  that  Turner  had  a  whole  gallery 
full  of  pictures  that  he  could  not  sell,  it  is  wrong  to  rely 
on  popularity  as  a  proof  of  merit,  or  the  neglect  engen- 
dered by  fashion  and  fed  by  ignorance  (which  is  the  fate 
of  all  painters  sooner  or  later)  .as  evidence  of  failing  powers. 

In  this  year  a  great  international  exhibition  was  held  in 
Paris,  when  the  English  school  of  painters  received  wor- 
thy recognition.  Most  of  the  principal  British  painters 
were  well  represented,  and  the  French  artists,  to  their 
great  surprise,  it  is  said,  found  that  there  was  really  a 
school  of  art  in  England  worthy  the  name.  I  went  to 
Paris  with  two  friends,  one  of  whom  was  Millais,  and  we 
were  received  very  graciously  by  many  of  the  French 
painters  ;  Millais,  of  course,  carrying  away,  as  he  deserved, 
the  lion's  share  of  the  applause.  We  were  not  surprised 
at  the  kindness  of  our  reception,  but  the  houses — palaces 
would  be  the  better  name — in  which  some  of  the  artists 
lived  surprised  me  very  much.  Millais  and  Lcighton  are 
pretty  decently  lodged,  but  Detaille  and  Meissonier  out- 


"THE  BACE  FOR  WEALTH."  359 

strip  them  in  splendor.  I  had  never  seen  either  of  these 
gentlemen  before,  and  when  I  was  introduced  to  a  demon- 
strative little  man,  as  brisk  as  a  boy  of  twenty — attired  in 
black  dress-trousers  and  a  blue-silk  blouse,  open  in  front, 
disclosing  a  bright-red  shirt,  a  long  gray  beard  falling  over 
the  latter — as  M.  Meissonier,  I  had  an  example  before  me 
of  the  truth  of  the  saying  that  big  souls  often  locate  them- 
selves in  small  bodies.  Detaille  is  a  soldierly-looking  man, 
reminding  one  of  the  figures  he  draws  so  well;  but  his 
house !  and  his  bed !  the  latter  a  marvellous  structure — 
we  had  a  sight  of  it  from  his  studio;  black-and-gold  splen- 
dor— I  told  him  I  should  be  afraid  to  sleep  in  it. 

We  met  our  old  friend  Gambart  in  Paris,  with  whom 
was  De  Keyser,  the  head  of  the  Academy  at  Antwerp. 
He  had  come  to  Paris  mainly  to  paint  portraits  of  Millais 
and  my  humble  self  for  introduction  into  a  large  compo- 
sition to  be  executed  by  him  on  the  walls  of  Gambart's 
house  at  Nice.  We  take  our  place  in  a  group  of  contem- 
porary painters. 

Sarah  Bernhardt,  actress,  sculptor,  and  painter,  is  a 
friend  of  Mr.  Gambart's,  and  as  we  were  desirous  of  an  in- 
troduction to  a  person  so  celebrated,  a  day  was  fixed  for 
our  visit.  We  were  admitted,  through  large  gates,  into  a 
garden,  with  little  tables  dotted  about.  Carpeted  steps 
led  up  to  the  chief  entrance;  we  passed  it,  and  found  our- 
selves in  a  large  hall,  furnished  with  magnificence,  in  the 
shape  of  sculpture,  armor,  clocks,  etc.  Only  a  rapid  glance 
was  possible,  as  we  were  ushered  immediately  into  the  stu- 
dio— many  more  sculptures,  in  various  states  of  incomplete- 
ness, huge  tropical  plants,  and  unfinished  pictures — and,  as 
we  entered,  a  boy  dressed  in  white,  with  yellow  hair,  sprang 
from  a  sofa  and  greeted  us  warmly.  The  seeming  boy 
was  Miss  Sarah  Bernhardt,  whose  masculine  attire  was 
assumed  for  the  convenience  it  afforded  for  the  practice 
of  the  art  she  loves  far  more  than  that  in  which  she  is  so 
famous.  She  made  the  astounding  declaration  to  me  that 
she  hated  acting,  and  would  rather  succeed  in  painting  or 
sculpture,  or  both,  than  in  any  other  earthly  calling. 

Of  her  painting  I  cannot  speak,  for  I  saw  no  completed 
work ;  but  her  sculpture  surprised  us  all,  and  left  little 


360  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

doubt  that,  if  she  devoted  herself  entirely  to  that  art,  she 
would  take  a  high  place  among  its  professors.  We  saw 
her  play  in  Voltaire's  "  Zaire,"  and  also  in  Victor  Hugo's 
"  Hernani,"  and  from  these  performances,  and  what  I  have 
seen  since,  I  consider  Sarah  Bernhardt  by  far  the  greatest 
actress  I  ever  saw.  Old  playgoers  say  she  is  surpassed  by 
Rachel;  that  actress  I  never  saw,  but  I  cannot  conceive  it 
possible  for  acting  to  go  beyond  that  of  this  wonderful 
woman. 

Encouraged  by  the  success  of  the  "Road  to  Ruin,"  I 
immediately  embarked  in  a  new  venture — a  series  of  five 
pictures,  representing  the  career  of  a  fraudulent  financier, 
or  promoter  of  bubble  companies,  a  character  not  uncom- 
mon in  1877,  or,  perhaps,  even  at  the  present  time.  I 
wished  to  illustrate,  also,  the  common  passion  for  specu- 
lation, and  the  destruction  that  so  often  attends  the  in- 
dulgence of  it  to  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  the  financier's 
dupes.  I  planned  my  first  scene  in  the  office  of  the  finan- 
cier— eventually  called  the  spider — the  principal  flies  being 
an  innocent-looking  clergyman,  who,  with  his  wife  and 
daughters,  are  examining  samples  of  ore  supposed  to  be 
the  product  of  a  mine — a  map  of  which  is  conspicuous  on 
the  wall — containing  untold  wealth.  The  office  is  filled 
with  other  believers — a  pretty  widow  with  her  little  son, 
a  rough  country  gentleman  in  overcoat  and  riding-boots, 
a  foreigner  who  bows  obsequiously  to  the  great  projector 
as  he  enters  from  an  inner  office — in  which  clerks  are  seen 
writing  —  while  a  picture-dealer  attends  with  "a  gem," 
which  he  hopes  to  sell  to  the  great  man,  whose  taste  for 
art  is  not  incompatible  with  his  love  of  other  people's 
money.  Other  flies  buzz  round  the  web. 

The  second  picture  represents  the  spider  at  home.  He 
is  here  discovered  in  a  handsome  drawing-room,  receiving 
guests  who  have  been  invited  to  an  entertainment.  He 
stands — in  evening  dress — extolling  the  merits  of  a  large 
picture  to  a  group  of  his  guests,  one  of  whom,  a  pretty 
girl,  shows  by  her  smothered  laugh  that  she  appreciates 
the  vulgar  ignorance  of  the  connoisseur,  whose  art-terms 
are  evidently  ludicrously  misapplied.  The  double  draw- 
ing-room contains  many  figures,  some  of  whom  may  be 


"THE  BACK  FOB  WEALTH."  361 

recognized  as  the  clients  in  the  first  scene  at  the  office ; 
others  are  of  "  the  upper  ten,"  whose  admiration  of  suc- 
cess, combined  with  the  hope  of  sharing  in  it,  so  often  be- 
trays them  into  strange  company. 

If  "misfortune  makes  a  man  acquainted  with  strange 
bedfellows,"  the  converse  is  no  less  true  ;  for  who  has  not 
been  startled  by  the  appearance  of  an  uncouth  and  vulgar 
figure  in  what  is  called  "high  society,"  who,  on  inquiry, 
has  proved  to  have  had  but  one  cause  for  his  admission, 
namely,  the  possession  of  great  wealth,  and  the  reputa- 
tion of  having  acquired  it  by  successful  speculation ;  the 
secret  of  which  his  hosts  hope  to  ascertain  and  practise  ? 

After  this  moral  reflection,  for  which  I  must  ask  pardon, 
I  proceed  with  my  description.  My  host's  wife,  of  a  vul- 
gar type,  receives  more  guests  announced  by  the  butler, 
the  open  door  allowing  evidence  of  the  approaching  ban- 
quet to  be  seen.  Hungry  guests  examine  their  watches, 
other  guests  arrive,  and  the  company  goes  to  a  dinner 
which  must  be  left  to  my  reader's  imagination. 

In  the  third  of  the  series  the  crash  has  come.  The  fool- 
ish clergyman  sits  at  his  breakfast-table,  with  his  head 
bent  to  the  blow.  His  wife,  with  terrified  face,  reads  the 
confirmation  of  her  worst  fears  in  the  newspaper,  which  a 
retreating  footman  has  brought.  Two  daughters  have 
risen,  terror-stricken,  from  their  chairs,  and  a  little  mid- 
shipman son  looks  at  the  scene  with  a  puzzled  expression, 
in  which  fear  predominates.  The  catastrophe  is  complete : 
the  little  fortune  has  been  invested  in  the  mine,  and  the 
whole  of  it  lost.  But  my  hero  has  been  overbold ;  he  has 
produced  ore  which  his  impending  trial  proves  to  be  the 
product  of  a  mine,  but  not  of  the  one  in  which  his  unhap- 
py victims  took  shares.  He  is  arrested,  and  takes  his 
place  in  the  dock  at  the  Old  Bailey,  where  we  must  now 
follow  him,  and  also  arrive  at  the  fourth  of  the  scenes  in 
"The  Race  for  Wealth."  See  the  financier  there  stand- 
ing, with  blanched  face,  listening  to  the  evidence  given 
by  the  clergyman,  which,  if  proved,  will  consign  him  to 
penal  servitude.  His  victims — recognizable  as  those  in 
his  office  in  the  opening  of  my  story — stand  ready  to  add 
their  testimony.  The  widow,  the  foreigner,  the  country 
16 


362  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

gentleman  are  there ;  and  so,  also,  are  some  of  his  aristo- 
cratic guests,  one  of  whom  studies  his  miserable  face  by 
the  aid  of  an  opera-glass.  The  counsel  and  the  jury  ex- 
amine the  real  and  the  spurious  specimens  of  ore.  The 
evidence  is  overwhelming,  the  verdict  is  pronounced ;  and 
that  it  is  "  Guilty  "  is  proved  by  the  final  scene,  where,  in 
prison-garb,  the  luckless  adventurer  takes  his  dismal  exer- 
cise, with  his  fellow-convicts,  in  the  great  quadrangle  of 
Millbank  jail.  And  so  ends  my  tale ;  and  my  object  is 
accomplished — rightly  or  wrongly  conceived — that  both 
those  who,  in  their  eagerness  to  become  rich,  rush  into 
rash  speculation,  and  the  man  who  cheats  them,  should  all 
be  punished.  In  the  comic  paper  called  Fun  the  admira- 
ble artist  of  that  journal,  Mr.  Sullivan,  laid  hold  of  my 
puppets,  and  made  them  play  a  different  game.  He  rep- 
resented the  clergyman  as  ruined,  it  is  true;  but  he  de- 
clined to  punish  the  swindler,  who  rolls  along  a  street  in 
his  carriage,  accompanied  by  his  vulgar  wife,  without  the 
least  display  of  sympathy  for  the  poor  parson,  who  is  re- 
duced to  sweeping  a  crossing  over  which  the  carriage  has 
just  passed.  I  will  not  dispute  the  probability  of  the  truth 
of  my  friend  Sullivan's  version,  for  I  know  instances  of  it; 
but,  naturally,  I  prefer  my  own.  With  a  view  to  truth- 
fulness, I  visited  several  offices  in  the  City — stockbrokers 
and  others — in  order  that  my  swindler's  surroundings  in 
his  place  of  business  should  be  en  regie ;  but  I  found  so 
strong  an  objection  on  the  part  of  my  stockbroking  friends 
to  any  of  their  offices  being  used  for  my  purpose  that  I 
was  obliged  to  evolve  one  out  of  my  inner  consciousness. 
Having  no  such  scruples,  I  did  not  hesitate  to  use  my  own 
drawing-room  as  a  reception-room  for  my  hero's  company; 
and,  the  Old  Bailey  being  common  property,  I  found  no 
difficulty  in  taking  measurements  and  photographs  of  that 
dreadful  place.  I  examined  every  part  of  it.  I  made  my 
way  from  Newgate  through  subterranean  passages  to  the 
dock,  in  which  I  took  my  place  as  an  imaginary  criminal. 
I  tried  to  realize  the  impression  that  the  sight  of  the  judge, 
with  the  sword  of  justice  over  him,  together  with  a  crowd- 
ed court,  would  produce  on  the  half-dazed  eyes  of  the  poor 
wretch  who  had  come  upon  the  scene  through  those  dim 


"THE  BACE  FOB  WEALTH."  363 

passages.  I  hear  of  an  intention  to  pull  down  the  old 
court,  which  is,  no  doubt,  in  many  respects  inconvenient. 
If  that  should  happen  my  trial-scene  will  acquire  an  addi- 
tional interest;  for,  well  or  ill  done,  it  is  an  exact  repre- 
sentation of  the  Old  Bailey. 

I  derived  great  assistance  from  the  eminent  personages 
whose  duties  so  often  take  them  there,  who  all  expressed 
their  willingness  to  sit  for  my  picture.  First,  the  judge, 
my  old  friend  Baron  Huddleston,  in  the  kindest  manner 
donned  his  robes,  and  sat  so  well  for  me  that  a  good  like- 
ness is  the  result.  Valuable  assistance  was  afforded  by 
Alderman  Sir  Thomas  Gabriel,  who  takes  his  place  on  the 
bench  near  the  judge.  I  may  say  the  same  of  the  officers 
of  the  court,  and  of  the  clerk  of  arraigns,  Mr.  Avory, 
whose  portrait  is  considered  very  like  him.  The  barris- 
ters in  the  picture  represent  Sergeant  Ballantine,  Mr.  Po- 
land, and  Montagu  Williams,  all  of  whom  gave  up  many 
hours  of  valuable  time  in  my  favor.  I  did  not  omit  the 
well-known  face  of  Mr.  George  Lewis,  nor  can  I  forget  to 
thank  him  in  this  place  for  his  good  offices.  With  respect 
to  the  prison  at  Millbank,  admission  was  difficult,  unless  I 
qualified  myself  by  a  proceeding  which,  however  easy  it 
might  make  my  entrance,  would  effectually  preclude  my 
voluntary  exit.  Armed,  then,  with  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  a  high  personage,  I  sought  the  Governor  of  Millbank, 
and  in  Captain  Talbot  Harvey  I  found  a  man  in  authority 
who  most  readily  promised  me  every  kind  of  assistance, 
only  requiring  compliance  with  certain  easy  conditions. 
I  should  see  many  prisoners,  but  I  must  not  speak  to  any 
of  them.  I  minutely  explained  my  object. 

"  Yes,  you  shall  see  the  prisoners  taking  their  constitu- 
tional in  one  of  the  courtyards." 

"  How  far  are  they  apart  as  they  walk  ?" 

"  Well,  far  enough  to  prevent  the  probability  of  com- 
munication— though,  in  spite  of  every  care  to  prevent  it, 
they  manage  to  speak,  but  very  rarely;  for  the  first  nine 
months  of  their  punishment  they  are  condemned  to  dead 
silence.  You  will  want  a  prison-dress  to  paint  from  ?  Ah, 
that  will  be  difficult.  We  shall  see.  Now  I  will  take  you 
where  you  like."  Then,  looking  at  the  clock,  the  gov- 


364  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

ernor  added,  "  This  is  just  the  time  the  prisoners  take 
their  walk." 

My  guide  conducted  me,  accompanied  by  a  tall  warder, 
through  passages  and  doors  which  were  unlocked  to  ad- 
mit us  to  other  passages,  and  always  carefully  locked  be- 
hind us,  till  we  arrived  at  a  large  irregular  quadrangle, 
where  fifty  or  sixty  men  in  fustian  suits,  marked  with  the 
broad  arrow,  were  walking  rapidly  one  after  another,  al- 
ways preserving  the  prescribed  distance,  in  a  dreadful 
circle  ;  not  a  sound  but  the  monotonous  tramp.  Two 
warders  only,  placed  at  opposite  sides  of  the  circle,  were 
enough  to  control  this  ghastly  assembly.  The  first  thought 
of  a  stranger  would  be  that  the  warders  were  in  danger^ 
and  I  expressed  myself  to  that  effect  to  the  governor. 

"  Oh,  no,  there  is  no  fear.  A  preconcerted  attack  is  im- 
possible ;  and,  should  an  attempt  be  made  by  any  of  the 
more  violent,  the  rest  would  help  the  officers." 

Noticing  the  pale  faces,  made  additionally  grim  by 
partly-grown  beards,  I  remarked : 

"I  thought  the  prisoners  were  always  shaved  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Harvey,  "  we  used  to  shave  them 
all ;  but  it  was  found  so  difficult  to  keep  the  razors  in  or- 
der, and  the  poor  fellows  complained  so  much  of  the  pain 
of  being  shaved  by  bad  razors,  that  we  cut  their  beards 
short  instead." 

As  the  prisoners  passed  and  repassed  us,  I  noticed  faces 
that  retained  an  air  of  breeding  and  refinement  (some  so 
young  !)  that  the  prison-dress  and  the  stubby  beard  could 
not  efface ;  and  I  displayed  a  perhaps  pardonable  curiosity 
to  know  the  name  and  crime  of  one  whose  walk,  even,  be- 
trayed the  gentleman. 

"  No,"  said  my  courteous  guide ;  "  it  would  be  quite 
irregular  to  disclose  the  name  or  the  crime  of  any  prisoner, 
and  for  one  good  reason,  among  many  others  :  you  might 
possibly  meet  the  very  man  you  inquire  about  in  society, 
and  that  before  very  long;  and  it  would  be  manifestly 
wrong  in  us  to  deprive  him  of  the  advantage  his  evening 
dress  and  full-grown  beard  would  give  him  in  evading 
discovery  of  his  unfortunate  antecedents.  I  may  perhaps 
surprise  you  when  I  tell  you  that  several  of  those  you  see 


"THE  RACE  FOB  WEALTH."  365 

exercising  are  going  through  their  second  and  third  terms 
of  five  years'  penal  servitude.  Strange,  isn't  it  ?  I  should 
have  thought  one  term  would  be  enough,  but  no ;  and  the 
way  they  will  deny  their  previous  convictions  is  curious. 
One  man  (whose  face  I  knew  again  in  a  moment),  when  I 
said  to  him, '  So  here  you  are  again  !'  declared,  with  a  won- 
derful assumption  of  innocent  truthfulness, '  Me,  sir ;  no, 
sir.  I  never  was  in  prison  in  my  life  before.'  I  was  stag- 
gered for  a  moment,  but  a  second  look  convinced  me.  I 
sent  for  a  collection  of  photographs,  selected  the  gentle- 
man's likeness  (taken,  as  all  prisoners  are,  after  convic- 
tion), and,  showing  it  to  him,  said,  'That's  you,  isn't  it?' 

" '  Well,  sir,'  said  the  man,  turning  the  photograph  about 
and  looking  at  it  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, '  I  shouldn't 
have  knowed  it  myself;'  then,  with  an  air  of  frankness, 
'  but  if  a  gent  like  you  says  it's  me,  it  don't  become  such 
a  cove  as  me  to  contradict  you,  you  know,  sir.'  " 

In  my  sketch  of  the  prisoners  exercising,  I  had  commit- 
ted the  important  mistake  of  making  them  walk  within 
speaking-distance  of  each  other ;  the  dress  I  had  imagined 
was  as  unlike  as  possible  to  the  real  one ;  and  of  the  archi- 
tecture of  a  prison-yard  I  was  fortunately  ignorant.  These 
mistakes  were  now  to  be  easily  rectified,  provided  I  could 
be  permitted  to  take  photographs  of  the  quadrangle,  and 
be  furnished  with  one  of  the  convict's  dresses.  There  was 
much  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  authorities  before  the 
dress  was  lent  £o  me;  and  it  was  only  on  my  undertaking 
that  I  would  avoid  the  slightest  resemblance  to  any  of  the 
prisoners  whose  exercise  I  had  watched,  that  my  request 
was  granted.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  I  carefully  selected 
types  that  may  some  day  take  their  constitutional  at  Mill- 
bank,  but  are  at  present  more  or  less  respectable  members 
of  society.  I  went  several  times  to  the  prison,  and  was 
consigned  to  a  warder  who,  less  reticent  than  the  govern- 
or, but  equally  careful  not  to  infringe  rules,  told  me  some 
amusing  stories  of  the  prisoners,  one  of  which  shall  be  re- 
corded. 

The  burglar  Peace — whose  crimes  and  fate  are  well 
known — was  what  the  warder  styled  "  a  first-class  prison- 
er." He  had  served  a  long  period  of  imprisonment  before 


366  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

he  committed  the  murders  which  consigned  him  to  the 
scaffold;  and  during  the  latter  portion  of  it  he  was  al- 
lowed, partly  as  an  indulgence  for  his  good  behavior,  to 
practise  an  art  in  which  he  displayed  much  ingenuity; 
namely,  that  of  cutting  out  of  a  rough  kind  of  cardboard 
a  variety  of  objects — birds,  beasts,  fishes,  houses,  and  the 
like.  The  royal  arms  was  a  favorite  subject.  I  was 
shown  one  of  these,  and  really  the  lion  and  the  unicorn 
showed  the  true  feeling  of  an  artist.  He  colored  his  pro- 
ductions when  paints  were  available. 

"A  little  too  glaring,"  the  warder  said,  "but  very 
pretty.  He  was  a  good  talker  too,  sir,  was  Peace  ;  he 
wouldn't  mind  telling  lots  of  burgling  stories.  He  was  a 
first-class  burglar,  we  considered  him.  Well,  one  day  he 
said  to  me  : 

" '  What  a  sad  thing  it  is  that  when  once  a  person  gets 
a  character  for  being  untruthful  nobody  will  believe  what 
he  says  !  Now,  to  give  you  an  idea,  Mr.  Green,'  says  he 
(Green's  my  name,  sir),  'there,  was  a  friend  of  mine,  a 
chemist,  at  Clapham.  He  had  a  prejudice  against  me  be- 
cause I  had  told  him  lies  now  and  then ;  and  one  day  I  was 
in  his  shop  smoking  a  cigar.  I'd  gone  for  some  physic, 
not  feeling  quite  the  thing;  and  he  says  to  me,  says  he, 
sniffing  up  : 

" ' "  That's  a  fine  cigar  you  are  smoking,  Peace,"  he 
says.  "Where  might  you  have  got  those  cigars?" 

"  <  "  I  stole  'em,"  I  said. 

"  '  " Did  you  ?"  says  he,  laughing.  "I  wish  you  would 
steal  some  for  me." 

"'"Well,  I  will,"  said  I;  and  a  few  days  after  I  goes 
into  his  shop  with  half  a  boxful  of  same  cigars.  "  There 
you  are,"  says  I;  "I  have  stolen  some  for  you,  as  I  prom- 
ised." Well,  he  laughs  again  more  than  ever  ;  but  he 
didn't  believe  me,  though  I  assure  you  I  had  told  him  the 
truth.'  " 

An  innocent  man  was  very  nearly  being  hanged  for  one 
of  Mr.  Peace's  murders.  On  being  discharged  from  the 
care  of  my  friend  Mr.  Green,  Peace  at  once  resumed  his 
burglarious  profession.  He  always  went  armed,  as  a  pre- 
caution, and,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  not  with  any  idea 


"THE  RACE  FOB  WEALTH."  367 

of  hurting  nobody;"  and  it  was  only  when  he  found  him- 
self so  hard  pressed,  after  committing  a  burglary,  as  to 
leave  him  the  choice  of  being  taken  by  a  policeman  or  of 
shooting  him,  that,  much  to  his  regret,  he  was  compelled 
to  use  his  revolver,  and  the  policeman  fell  dead.  An  in- 
nocent man  was  tried  for  this  murder,  found  guilty  of  it, 
and  condemned  to  death;  but  as  some  doubt  arose  with 
respect  to  an  alibi,  upon  which  the  poor  fellow  had  relied, 
his  sentence  was  commuted  into  imprisonment  for  life. 
Peace's  success  encouraged  him  to  further  efforts,  many 
of  them  being  rewarded  with  the  result  that  his  genius 
deserved,  till  one  luckless  night,  after  a  very  hazardous 
operation,  he  was  again  interrupted;  "  most  unfairly,"  he 
said,  "  for  he  only  wanted  to  go  away  quietly." 

The  owner  of  the  house — or,  to  quote  Peace  again,  of 
"the  crib  that  he  had  cracked" — surprised  Mr.  Peace  as 
he  was  leaving  the  premises  laden  with  the  "  swag,"  seized 
the  burglar,  and  paid  for  his  courage  with  his  life.  Peace 
was  arrested,  and  made  a  full  confession  of  this  and  other 
murders,  entirely  exculpating  the  poor  man  who  was  lin- 
gering in  prison,  where  he  had  already  passed  more  than 
two  years.  The  innocent  man  was,  of  course,  instantly 
released,  receiving  what  the  law  calls  "  a  free  pardon " 
for  a  crime  that  he  had  not  committed.  In  Peace's  con- 
fession he  acknowledged  the  justice  of  his  doom  in  these 
words  : 

"  Well,  I  am  a-going  to  be  executed,  and  I  suppose  I've 
no  call  to  complain  ;  but  what  I  say  is  this,  I'm  going  to 
be  hung  for  what  I  done,  but  never  intended"  I  may 
close  my  account  of  Mr.  Peace's  career  with  a  horribly 
grim  joke  said  to  have  been  perpetrated  by  one  of  the 
witnesses  of  his  execution.  The  rope  was  round  the  crim- 
inal's neck,  and  the  executioner  was  on  the  point  of  draw- 
ing the  bolt,  when  the  criminal  exclaimed  : 

"Wait  a  bit;  give  me  some  water — just  a  drop." 

As  the  words  left  his  lips  they  were  closed  forever. 

" He  asked  for  a  drop"  said  the  hardened  bystander, 
"  and  he  has  got  it." 

It  is  a  little  remarkable  that  the  penitentiary  at  Mill- 
bank  is — like  the  Old  Bailey — doomed  to  destruction,  and 


368  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

will  soon  cease  to  be  a  prison.  I  think,  therefore,  that  the 
courtyard — with  its  surrounding  cells — which  forms  the 
mise-en-sc&ne  of  my  picture,  precisely  copied  from  nature 
as  it  is,  may  be  interesting  as  a  record  of  prison  life  at 
this  time. 

The  series  of  "  The  Race  for  Wealth  "  was  exhibited  in 
King  Street,  St.  James's,  and  visited  by  great  numbers  of 
people.  The  pictures  were  translated  by  photogravure, 
but  whether  from  the  faults  of  the  pictures,  or  of  the 
method  in  which  they  were  reproduced,  the  result  was  far 
from  satisfactory. 

My  summer  holiday  of  1879  was  spent  at  Tenby. 
Though  it  has  been  my  habit  to  insist  upon  enforced  idle- 
ness, as  regards  the  actual' practice  of  my  profession,  for 
at  least  a  month  or  six  weeks  of  every  year,  I  have  nei- 
ther been  able,  nor  willing,  to  banish  from  my  mind  all 
thought  of  fresh  material  for  my  work  ;  and  the  sight  of 
the  Welsh  fishwomen  with  their  picturesque  costumes 
suggested  subjects  for  a  variety  of  pictures.  It  was  com- 
mon to  see  these  women,  with  their  high  Welsh  hats  and 
bright  petticoats,  offering  their  wares  to  the  visitors  ;  bar- 
gains being  struck  as  the  ladies  stood  at  their  windows. 
One  such  scene  I  determined  to  paint,  and  that  picture — 
together  with  a  single  figure-piece — were  my  only  contri- 
butions to  the  Exhibition  of  1880;  my  principal  work 
being  shown  elsewhere.  After  an  interval  of  eight  years 
I  found  myself  again  a  member  of  the  dreadful  and 
dreaded  hanging  committee.  I  can  say  for  myself,  and  I 
feel  sure  I  can  say  for  my  colleagues,  that  we  tried  to  do 
our  "spiriting  gently;"  but  I  fear  we  did  not  escape  cen- 
sure for  not  performing  impossibilities ;  and  so  long  as 
would-be  exhibitors  are  allowed  to  send  in  any  number 
of  pictures  in  the  hope  of  one  or  two  being  selected,  con- 
fusion and  unintentional  injustice  must  occur. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A    MYSTERIOUS    S  I  T  T  E  B. 

THE  first  fog  of  the  season  made  its  hated  appearance 
early  in  October  of  the  year  1853,  and  I  had  cast  my  de- 
spairing eyes  many  times  up  to  the  square  patch  of  opaque 
pea-soup  atmosphere  that  showed  itself  at  the  window  of 
my  studio,  in  the  hope  that  I  might  discover  a  favorable 
change  in  its  determined  opposition  to  the  practice  of  the 
fine  arts,  when  my  servant  entered  the  room  and  presented 
me  with  a  card. 

"  The  gentleman  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  would  like 
to  see  you  on  particular  business." 

"Mr.  William  Rivers,"  said  the  card. 

I  found  my  visitor  to  be  a  tall,  gentlemanly-looking  man 
about  thirty,  wlfo,  after  profuse  apology  for  taking  the 
liberty  of  calling  on  me,  said  in  a  strangely  nervous  and 
agitated  manner  that  he  had  seen  some  of  my  works  in 
the  possession  of  a  friend,  and  though  they  were  not  por- 
traits, he  hoped — that  is,  he  feared — that  though  it  might 
not  be  my  habit  to  —  still,  perhaps,  I  might  under  certain 
circumstances  (what  on  earth  is  the  man  driving  at  ? 
thought  I)  I  might  —  I  might  be  induced  —  here  the  ner- 
vousness became  so  embarrassing  that  I  suggested  an  ad- 
journment to  my  painting-room,  more  in  the  hope  of  giv- 
ing the  gentleman  time  to  collect  himself  than  with  the 
desire  of  showing  him  the  work  I  had  in  progress.  The 
fog  had  cleared  sufficiently  to  enable  my  visitor  to  see  a 
small  picture,  then  on  the  easel,  and  nearly  completed.  I 
immediately  found  I  had  to  do  with  a  man  who  had  not 
only  a  love  of  art,  but  a  knowledge  of  its  principles.  But 
he  could  not  talk  about  the  little  scene  from  "The  Bride 
of  Lammermoor  "  forever;  the  object  of  his  visit  must  be 
broached,  and  then  the  nervous  condition  took  possession 
16* 


370  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

of  him  more  completely  than  before.  After  an  awkward 
silence,  he  said: 

"  It  is  not  for  myself.  I  have  no  interest — that  is,  I  am 
interested  for  my  friend  Street.  He  lives  in  Nottingham — 
you  know  Nottingham  ?  No  ?  Ah — yes — well,  she  is  his 
sister — young  lady — yes,  he  would  like  you  to  paint  her 
portrait."  (Is  this  all?  what  is  there  to  be  nervous  about  ? 
I  said  to  myself.) 

"I  never  paint  portraits,"  was  my  reply;  and  I  explained 
my  reason  on  seeing  the  blank  look  of  disappointment  that 
the  handsome  face  assumed.  I  showed  him  a  female  figure 
painted  from  a  model,  for  which  I  had  received  a  sum  as 
large,  or  perhaps  larger,  than  I  could  charge  for  a  portrait  of 
a  similar  size ;  and  I  told  him  that  in  painting  it  I  had  no 
thought  about  likeness,  which  in  a  portrait  is  essential.  I 
had  no  one  but  myself  to  please.  Artists'  models  are 
selected  on  account  of  some  charm  of  feature  or  expres- 
sion —  they  are  all,  more  or  less,  agreeable  objects  of  con- 
templation; whereas  the  man  who  undertakes  a  portrait 
may  be  condemned  to  spend  hour  after  hour  in  studying 
the  ugly  or  the  commonplace,  and  please  nobody  after  all. 

The  stranger's  face  brightened  as  he  said: 

"But  suppose  now,  for  the  sake  of  argument  (sic) — sup- 
pose that  you  have  a  beautiful  girl  proposed  to  you,  quite, 
I  should  say  —  yes,  more  so  than  that  you  have  just  done, 
and  she  would  sit  quite  still,  you  know,  and  so  on — suit 
herself  to  your  time,  and  that  sort  of  thing  —  in  short, 
make  herself  very  agreeable  in  every  way,  would  you  un- 
dertake to  oblige  my  friend — and — and — me  ?" 

After  a  moment's  pause,  I  said: 

"  Well,  if  the  lady  is  what  you  describe,  and  she  will 
fulfil  the  conditions  you  name,  I  will  do  my  best  to  please 
all  concerned." 

"  Will  you  ?  will  you  ?"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
agitation.  "  Well  then,  I  hope,  Mr.  Frith,  that  I  shall  not — 
a — a — that  my  visit,  I  mean — that  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to 
my — to  Mr.  Street  at  Nottingham,  I  mean — and  say  you 
consent  to  paint  his  sister.  That  you  will  agree  with  ev- 
erybody in  thinking  her  a  lovely  girl,  I  have  no  doubt  at 
all.  When  can  she  take  her  first  sitting  ?" 


A   MYSTERIOUS   SITTEE.  371 

"  Ah  !  by  the  way,"  said  I,  "  I  can't  go  to  Nottingham, 
you  know.  How  is  that  to  be  managed  ?" 

"  I  may  say,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  my  friend  Street  has 
left  me  carte  blanclie  as  to  terras,  so  there  will  be  no  diffi- 
culty about  that;  and  Miss  Street,  she — she — oh,  of  course, 
not.  Nottingham  ?  Oh,  no !  She  is  in  London,  and  will 
remain  some  months  longer — at  least,  that  is,  I  believe  so; 
and  I  hope — a — you  will  find  her  a — " 

"  Where  is  she  staying  ?" 

"Staying  —  stay—  '  here  the  nervousness  increased 
frightfully.  "Her  address?  She  lives  —  that  is,  she  re- 
sides— at  present  she  is  staying — but  perhaps  you  will  be 
good  enough  not  to  mention  my  name  to  the  lady  she  is 
with,  if  you  please,  because  she  does  not  know  me,  and  I 
don't  want  her  to  hear  my  name  in  the  matter  of  the  pict- 
ure— Miss  Street  is  staying  with  a  Mrs.  Baker  at  present, 
who  lives — yes — I  will  send  you  the  address;  and  you  bear 
in  mind  that  my  name  is  not  to  be  mentioned." 

"  Of  course  you  may  depend  on  me  in  that  respect." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  Let  me  see — I  hope  to  be  in  Notting- 
ham to  night.  Yes,  this  is  Thursday;  Friday  too  late. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  on  Saturday,  Mr.  Frith,  without 
fail.  You  will  be  ready  for  first  sitting  Monday,  you  say. 
Mrs.  Baker's  address  is  501  St.  John's  Wood  Road.  Satur- 
day without  fail.  Good  -  day.  Don't  trouble  yourself  to 
come  to  the  door.  Ah  !  it  has  cleared  up,  I  see.  What 
convenient  things  these  hansoms  are  !  Pray  don't  stand 
in  the  air  without  your  hat.  Good-day  !"  And  Mr.  Rivers, 
still  strangely  agitated,  jumped  into  his  cab,  and  was 
whirled  off  townwards. 

After  he  had  gone,  and  I  thought  the  matter  over,  I  did 
not  feel  comfortable  about  it.  Why  did  he  shrink  from 
telling  me  the  address,  and  then  tell  it  ?  And  why  was  he 
so  nervous  ?  Perhaps  the  young  lady  was  not  so  pretty 
after  all  —  only  beautiful  in  his  eyes,  for  he  was  evidently 
— ah  !  the  more  I  thought  of  it  the  less  I  liked  Mr.  Will- 
iam Rivers,  with  his  hesitating  manner  so  like  guilt,  his 
St.  John's  Wood  Road,  and  his  Mrs.  Baker  ! 

However,  on  the  Saturday  morning  I  received  a  note 
from  Mr.  Rivers,  telling  me  that  I  might  expect  Miss 


372  MY   AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Street  and  Mrs.  Baker  at  ten  o'clock  on  Monday;  and 
punctually  to  the  moment  they  arrived.  I  found  Mrs. 
Baker  to  be  a  lady  of  a  certain  age;  still  handsome,  port- 
ly, and  of  excellent  manners;  a  little  over-precise  perhaps, 
and  utterly  opposed  to  my  preconceived  idea  of  her.  I 
may  mention  here  what  I  afterwards  discovered,  namely, 
that  Mrs.  Baker  had  formerly  kept  a  large  establishment 
for  young  ladies,  and  now  received  only  two  or  three  for 
the  purpose  of  "finishing"  their  education,  Miss  Street 
being  one  of  these. 

I  need  not  tell  those  who  have  done  me  the  honor  to 
read  thus  far  in  my  reminiscences,  that,  unsatisfactory  as 
the  productions  of  my  pencil  may  be,  I  am  still  more  un- 
fortunate when  I  assume  the  pen;  and  as  I  most  certainly 
failed  to  do  justice  to  my  lovely  model  with  my  brush,  I 
cannot  hope  to  convey  a  clear  idea  of  her  with  the  less 
familiar  pen.  She  was  tall,  and  graceful  in  every  move- 
ment. Her  head  was  small,  perfectly  formed,  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  dark  hair;  her  throat,  like  that  which  Anne 
Boleyn  must  have  clasped  with  her  pretty  little  hands 
when  she  made  that  cheerful  remark  to  the  headsman, 
white  and  round  as  —  what  you  will,  except  snow  or  ala- 
baster; very  tender  gray  eyes,  with  long  dark  lashes;  a 
straight  nose,  with  proudly  curved  nostrils;  and  the  love- 
liest of  lovely  mouths.  Every  turn  of  her  head  and  every 
change  of  attitude  disclosed  a  fresh  beauty;  and  it  was 
anxious  work  to  select  a  position  which,  when  once 
chosen,  had  to  be  fixed  on  canvas  forever.  But  at  last, 
after  many  turnings  and  twistings,  and  a  strangled  yawn 
or  two  from  Mrs.  Baker,  an  outline  was  made,  and  I  set 
my  model  free;  arranging  for  the  "first  painting"  on  the 
following  day. 

An  account  of  the  sittings  would  be  wearisome.  I  knew 
from  her  sweet  face  she  would  sit  well,  and  that  she  did 
most  patiently;  and  when  she  saw  me  more  than  ordinarily 
dispirited  and  anxious,  with  downright  failure  staring  me 
in  the  face  and  chilling  me  to  the  marrow,  she  would  con- 
quer all  sense  of  fatigue,  and  again  I  saw  the  expression  I 
would  have  given  the  world  to  catch.  Mrs.  Baker  never 
came  after  the  first  visit.  Miss  Bloxam,  a  dowdy,  good 


A  MYSTERIOUS   SITTKB.  373 

little  soul,  who  seemed  to  have  all  the  pillow-cases  in  St. 
John's  Wood  to  make  or  mend,  accompanied  my  sitter, 
and  was  harmless  and  good-natured  enough. 

I  remembered  my  promise  to  Mr.  Rivers,  and  never 
mentioned  his  name;  but  Miss  Street  often  spoke  of  her 
brother,  and  impressed  me  with  the  idea  that  she  had  a 
deep  affection  for  him.  Sometimes  I  spoke  of  Notting- 
ham as  her  home,  and  asked  her  when  she  expected  to 
leave  London  and  reside  entirely  with  her  brother ;  but  to 
this  inquiry,  and  others  as  to  her  friends  in  Nottingham- 
shire, I  received  short  and  hesitating  replies.  She  had  no 
present  intention  of  leaving  town,  she  said,  and  she  seemed 
to  know  none  of  the  Nottinghamshire  families  with  whom 
I  happened  to  be  acquainted. 

When  the  head  of  the  portrait  was  near  completion  I 
was  doubtful  as  to  the  likeness ;  and  though  Miss  Bloxam 
gave  a  favorable  opinion,  I  thought  it  would  be  desirable 
to  communicate  directly  with  the  lady's  brother,  instead 
of  through  a  friend,  whose  acts  he  might  subsequently  dis- 
avow. I  accordingly  wrote  such  a  letter  to  Mr.  Rivers 
as  I  thought  would  insure  me  an  answer  from  the  prin- 
cipal in  the  affair;  but  the  reply  was  from  Mr.  Rivers,  who 
merely  desired  me  to  do  my  best,  being  empowered  to 
assure  me  that,  like  or  unlike,  the  picture  was  to  be  con- 
sidered Mr.  Street's.  So  I  advanced  the  head  still  further, 
and  Mr.  Street  having  sent  a  splendid  yellow-satin  dress 
from  Nottingham  —  a  dress  which  harmonized  admirably 
with  Miss  Street's  complexion  —  I  clothed  my  lay  figure 
in  the  gorgeous  robes,  and  by  dint  of  painting,  now  in  the 
dark,  now  in  the  light,  I  finished  the  costume.  I  think  it  was 
on  the  day  when  I  had  put  the  last  touches  to  the  black 
lace  on  the  dress  that  a  lady  and  gentleman  called  —  the 
lady  an  extremely  elegant  person,  and  the  gentleman, 
whom  she  introduced  as  her  brother,  a  tall,  handsome, 
soldierly-looking  man  with  a  black  mustache — and,  after 
many  apologies  for  their  intrusion,  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
see  Miss  Street's  portrait.  With  all  the  politeness  I  could 
summon  for  the  occasion,  I  declined  to  show  the  portrait 
until  after  Miss  Street  had  given  me  another,  and,  as  I 
hoped,  a  final  sitting;  this  would  take  place  in  a  few  days, 


374  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

and  if  they  would  favor  me  with  a  call  in  about  a  fort- 
night, they  should  have  their  wish.  Both  the  lady  and 
her  brother  seemed  to  know  Miss  Street  and  Mrs.  Baker 
very  well,  and  the  gentleman  asked  me  if  Mrs.  Baker  was 
present  during  the  sittings.  I  thought  he  seemed  pleased 
when  I  answered  in  the  negative ;  but  he  said  nothing,  and 
they  took  their  leave.  For  a  fortnight  after  this  I  saw 
nothing  of  my  beautiful  sitter,  the  weather  being  so  mis- 
erable with  fog  and  darkness  that  painting  at  all,  much 
less  finishing,  was  out  of  the  question ;  but  on  the  first 
struggle  of  the  sun  to  show  himself  I  betook  myself  to  St. 
John's  Wood  Road  to  arrange  for  a  sitting  the  next  day. 
I  found  Mrs.  Baker's  house,  and  was  shown  into  a  very 
handsome  drawing-room,  where  sat  Mrs.  Baker  herself. 
She  received  me  very  graciously,  and  I  told  her  my  errand. 
Then  she  lifted  her  eyebrows  gently,  and  said : 

"  Miss  Street's  portrait !  Ah,  I  perceive,  then,  you  have 
not  had  a  visit  from  Mr.  Street." 

I  told  her  I  had  never  seen  Mr.  Street  in  my  life. 

"  Dear  me  !"  she  said,  very  placidly ;  "  Miss  Street  is 
out  of  town." 

"  Out  of  town  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Why,  Miss  Street  in- 
formed me  that  it  was  not  only  not  probable,  but  that  her 
arrangements  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  leave  London 
before  Christmas,  and — " 

"  No  doubt ;  and  I  can  quite  clear  Miss  Street  of  at- 
tempting to  deceive,  in  this  case  at  any  rate,"  said  Mrs. 
Baker,  with  emphasis.  "She  had  no  idea  she  was  about 
to  leave  London  ;  of  that  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  feeling  rather  bewildered,  "  may  I  ask 
when  she  is  expected  to  return  ?" 

"  When  Miss  Street  is  expected  to  return  here,  do  you 
mean?  She  is  not  expected  to  return  to  this  house,  nor 
would  she  be  permitted  to  do  so." 

After  this  blow  I  was  stunned,  and  silent  for  a  moment. 
I  then  looked  at  Mrs.  Baker's  face,  and  fancied,  from  what 
I  saw  there,  that  she  was  brimful  of  something  she  wished 
to  divulge,  but  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  At  last  she 
said, 

"  You  need  be  under  no  apprehension  about  not  being 


A    MYSTERIOUS    SITTER.  375 

paid  for  the  portrait ;  they  seemed  to  be  very  anxious 
about  it,  and  there  is  plenty  of  money.  And  Mr.  Street 
didn't  call  ?  How  odd  !  You  have  never  seen  Mr.  Street, 
did  you  say?" 

"  Never,"  I  replied,  from  the  depths  of  gloom. 

"  May  I  ask —  Ah,  now  I  remember.  You  are  not  a 
portrait- painter  ?" 

"  No." 

"No!  You  undertook  to  paint  Miss  Street's  portrait 
through  the  intervention  of  a  mutual  friend?  Was  it 
not  so  ?" 

My  promise  to  Mr.  Rivers  flashed  across  me,  so  I  said, 

"  Why,  scarcely  a  mutual  friend.  I  never  saw  the  gen- 
tleman but  once,  and — " 

"  Not  a  mutual  friend  !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Baker.  "  De- 
ception again !  Decidedly  they  said  a  mutual  friend. 
That  you  didn't  paint  portraits,  but  as  a  special  favor 
you —  I  am  confident  he  was  a  mutual  friend.  What  was 
his  name?" 

"  His  name  ?     Well,  I—" 

"Was  it  Rivers  or  Collins?" 

"  It  was  not  Collins,  I  think  ;  but—" 

"Was  it  William  Rivers?" 

The  woman  thoroughly  drove  me  into  a  corner.  I  could 
only  say,  feebly,  that  I  could  not  take  upon  myself  to  say  ; 
that  I  could  not  tax  my  memory. 

"  I  only  saw  the  gentleman  once,  you  know,"  I  added, 
artfully. 

"Your  memory,  I  fear,  is  not  very  good,"  said  Mrs. 
Baker,  with  a  slight  sneer.  "  But  you  have  heard  from 
Mr.  Street?" 

"  No,  I  have  not,  Mrs.  Baker,"  I  said  ;  and  added,  with 
indignation,  "  and,  considering  I  am  painting  his  sister's 
portrait,  I  think — " 

"Nor  from  his  friend,  whose  name  has  escaped  you? 
Haven't  you  heard  from  the  friend  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  heard  twice  from  the  friend,  as  you  call 
him." 

"And  yet,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baker,  with  frightful  em- 
phasis, "  and  yet  you  cannot  recollect  his  name  ?" 


376  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

There  was  no  use  in  playing  with  such  a  woman,  so  I 
said  at  once, 

"  I  must  be  candid  with  you ;  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
name  of  the  person  who  called  on  me.  I — you  under- 
stand." 

"PERfectly,"  said  Mrs.  Baker, "  PERfectly  ;  nothing  but 
deceit.  I  beg  your  pardon —  ?" 

"I  was  not  about  to  make  any  remark,"  I  said,  as  she 
stopped  abruptly.  "I  merely  want  to  know  when  Miss 
Street  will  return." 

This  set  Mrs.  Baker  off  again.  She  implored  me  to  dis- 
miss any  fear  "  of  a  pecuniary  nature  "  from  my  mind. 
No  expense  had  been  spared  with  regard  to  the  "young 
person  ;"  there  was  evidently  plenty  of  money.  She  had 
had  singing-lessons,  German  lessons,  riding -lessons  ;  and 
as  she  uttered  the  last  words  Mrs.  Baker  went  off  at  a 
tangent,  and  said, 

"  Now,  Mr.  Frith,  you  have  never  seen  Mr.  Street,  and 
you  cannot  remember  the  name  of  the  person  who  ordered 
you  to  paint  the  portrait ;  pray  may  I  ask  if  you  know 
any  other  friend  of  Miss  Street's  ?" 

I  said,  "  No  ;  certainly  not." 

Then  I  bethought  me  of  the  lady  and  gentleman  who 
had  called  to  see  the  portrait.  I  mentioned  that  visit 
and  described  the  visitors.  Instantly  Mrs.  Baker's  face 
flushed. 

"  And  their  names,"  she  asked,  eagerly,  "  their  names  ? 
Were  they  Mrs.  Allen  and  Captain  Hill?" 

"Well,  I  am  not  quite  certain,"  said  I,  "but  I  think 
those  were  the  names.  Do  you  know  these  people  ?  They 
seemed  to  take  great  interest  in  Miss  Street." 

"  Who  seemed  to  take  great  interest  in  her — I  mean  in 
Miss  Street — Captain  Hill  ?  Yes,  indeed  !  The  interest 
Captain  Hill  takes  in  Miss  Street  is  the  cause  of  her  not 
being  able  to  sit  for  you  to-morrow  ;  they  had  taken  rid- 
ing-lessons together,  you  know.  Captain  Hill  has  driven 
Miss  Street  out  of  town  ;  not  that  she  wanted  to  go.  He 
is  a  very  handsome  man,  you  say  ;  he  may  be.  All  I  can 
say  is,  he  has  created  a  fine  confusion,  he  and  his  compan- 
ion plotter,  the  riding-master.  To  be  candid  with  you,  it 


A   MTSTEBIOU8    BITTER.  377 

is  a  stupid  love-matter.  Your  handsome  captain  has  fallen 
deeply  in  love  with  Miss  Street,  and  she  with  him." 

I  remarked  there  was  nothing  wonderful  in  that. 

"  Perhaps  not,  in  the  event  of  two  such  persons  being 
thrown  together;  but  they  never  ought  to  have  met. 
However,  I  have  washed  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair. 
My  conduct  is  open  to  the  world.  I  have  no  secrets,  and 
I  lend  myself,  knowingly  at  least,  to  no  deception." 

"May  I  ask  how  this  —  this  —  attachment  became 
known  ?" 

"  You  may,"  said  Mrs.  Baker,  with  enormous  candor, 
"  so  might  any  one.  As  I  said  before,  I  have  no  secrets. 
Of  course,  Mr.  Frith,  being  an  artist,  you  are  also  a  phys- 
iognomist. Now,  to  me,  Miss  Street  has  a  face  which  de- 
rives one  of  its  chief  charms  from  its  extremely  innocent 
expression.  Those  eyes,  how  often  have  I  thought  that 
deceit  could  find  no  home  there !  She  was  quick-tem- 
pered ;  she  had  other  faults  ;  but  deceit,  never.  Yet,  oh, 
dear  sir,  how  deceitful  she  has  proved  herself !  To  be 
brief :  I  saw  a  note  lying  on  my  hall-table,  addressed  to 
Miss  Street ;  the  address  was  written  in  a  hand  which  I  did 
not  recognize  as  belonging  to  any  of  her  usual  correspond- 
ents ;  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  gentleman's  writing  dis- 
guised, and  made  to  look  like  a  lady's.  I  was  suspicious, 
I  own,  and  when  Miss  Street  was  sitting  on  that  very 
stool,  reading  the  note,  I  watched  her.  She  had  just 
come  in  from  her  walk,  and  I  thought,  as  she  sat  on  that 
low  stool,  I  had  never  seen  a  more  innocent-looking,  pret- 
ty creature.  Do  you  know,  I  was  almost  ashamed  of  my 
suspicions,  when  I  saw  a  faint  blush  on  her  face ;  it  might 
have  been  fancy.  She  rose  and  left  the  room.  After  an 
absence  of  a  minute  or  two  she  came  back,  and  with  that 
artless  manner — you  know  her  way — she  said, 

"  *  Mrs.  Baker,  would  you  like  to  know  the  contents  of 
the  note  I  was  reading  ?' 

"  My  reply  was,  '  Clara,  my  love,  I  have  perfect  confi- 
dence in  you ;  you  would  receive  a  note  from  no  one  of 
whom  I  should  disapprove.  At  the  same  time,  if  you 
wish  to  tell  me  what  the  note  contained  I  can  have  no 
objection.' 


378  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

" '  Oh,  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  for  you  might  assist 
us,'  said  she  ;  '  it  is  from  an  old  schoolfellow  of  mine, 
poor  Annie  Featherstone.  We  were  such  friends,  Mrs. 
Baker,  and  now  her  father  has  been  speculating  and  lost 
everything  in  Pennsylvanian  bonds ;  the  family  is  quite 
reduced  in  circumstances,  and  poor  dear  Annie  is  obliged 
to  go  out  as  a  governess — and  she  such  a  proud  girl !  it 
will  be  a  sad  blow.  She  has  written  to  know  if  I  can  get 
her  a  situation.'  That,  Mr.  Frith,  was  Miss  Street's  story, 
and  I  believed  it.  I  was  too  credulous,  for  the  story  was 
false  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  The  note  came  from 
Captain  Hill." 

"  Good  gracious  !"  I  exclaimed.  "  How  did  you  dis- 
cover that?" 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  not  necessary,"  Mrs.  Baker  replied,  in  a 
dignified  tone  of  reserve,  "  to  enter  into  the  means  I  took 
to  discover  the  correspondence.  I  DID  discover  it,  and  I 
collected  the  letters  and  sent  them  to  her  brother." 

"  Well,  but,"  said  I,  "  perhaps  the  captain  may  be  a  good 
match  for  Miss  Street ;  and  if  so,  though  the  introduction 
may  be  what  we  could  not  approve  exactly,  why  should 
Mr.  Street  object  ?" 

On  this  point  Mrs.  Baker  was  very  clear. 

"  Mr.  Street  does  object,"  she  said  ;  "  that  is  very  plain. 
And  if  you  had  witnessed  the  scene  that  took  place  in  this 
room  you  would  have  been  as  much  puzzled  to  under- 
stand Mr.  Street  as  I  was.  Never  did  I  see  a  man  so  agi- 
tated ;  in  fact,  he  could  scarcely  control  himself.  He 
arrived  very  early  in  the  morning :  we  had  not  left  our 
rooms.  Miss  Street  declared  she  would  not  leave  London. 
She  seemed  to  have  a  strange  repugnance  to  accompany 
her  brother — she  would  follow  him  to-morrow — in  a  day 
or  two — he  could  trust  her,  she  supposed? — and  so  on. 
At  last  I  felt  obliged  to  say,  '  Clara,  my  love,  you  forget 
this  is  my  house ;  and  I  regret  to  have  to  tell  you  that, 
after  the  terrible  way  in  which  you  have  deceived  me, 
there  is  no  longer  a  home  for  you  here.  We  must  part, 
if  you  please.'  I  really  felt  for  her,  poor  girl,  she  cried 
so  ;  but  then  you  know  the  dreadful  story  she  told  me, 
Mr.  Frith !" 


A   MYSTERIOUS   SITTER.  379 

I  was  struck  with  an  idea.  "  Pray,  Mrs.  Baker,  what  is 
Mr.  Street  like?" 

Mrs.  Baker  immediately  described  a  gentleman  who 
would  pass  admirably  for  Mr.  William  Rivers. 

"Come,"  thought  I,  "this  is  really  mysterious;"  and  I 
asked  Mrs.  Baker  to  show  me  some  of  Mr.  Street's  hand- 
writing. "  The  cover  of  one  of  his  notes  would  do." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  lady,  opening  a  small  drawer 
in  the  table  near  her.  "  Here  is  the  last  letter  I  received 
from  him.  Oh,  open  it,  open  it ;  I  wish  for  no  conceal- 
ment. I  have  no  secrets." 

The  penmanship  was  strange  to  me ;  certainly  not  that 
of  Rivers. 

"  That  is  Mr.  Street's  writing,  is  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  was  the  reply;  "but  it  is  singularly  un- 
like his  usual  penmanship.  It  is  evidently  written  in  great 
agitation,  you  see." 

"  May  I  see  the  ordinary  writing  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Certainly.  I  will  fetch  you  one  of  his  letters ;"  and 
Mrs.  Baker  left  the  room. 

During  her  absence  I  read  the  note  again  carefully,  and 
on  her  return  I  said, 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Baker,  I  see  no  address.  I  was  about  to 
ask  you  for  Mr.  Street's  address,  as  I  wish,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, to  write  to  him." 

"  Post-office,  Nottingham,"  said  Mrs.  Baker. 

"  Post-office,  Nottingham !"  I  exclaimed.  "  Why,  that 
is  no  address  at  all.  Mr.  Street  surely  doesn't  keep  a  post- 
office  !" 

"  That  is  the  only  address  I  have  ever  known,"  com- 
menced the  lady  ;  but  I,  astonished  out  of  my  good  man- 
ners, interrupted  : 

"  And  do  you  take  a  young  lady  into  your  house  who 
gives  no  address  beyond  a  post-office?" 

Mrs.  Baker  was  not  offended  in  the  least. 

"  Sir,  your  remark  is  natural  and  proper.  I  made  every 
inquiry  about  Miss  Street.  There  is  a  well-known  family 
in  Nottingham  of  that  name  ;  and  I  was  assured,  in  reply 
to  my  searching  questions,  that  I  should  be  perfectly  safe 
in  receiving  any  member  of  the  Street  family.  The  name 


380  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

of  Street  Lad  been  well  selected,  or  the  young  lady's  name 
may  really  be  Street,  only  she  does  not  belong  to  the  well- 
known  family  of  that  name.  Here  is  one  of  Mr.  Street's 
letters  in  his  usual  hand." 

William  Rivers,  by  all  that  is  curious  !  "  Oh  !  this  is 
the  other.  Well,  it  is  very  unlike  the  last,"  said  I. 

"  I  attribute  the  difference  to  the  agitation  of  the  writer," 
said  Mrs.  Baker.  "  You  see  the  writing  in  the  first  letter 
is  tremulous  and  ill-formed." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  looking  at  the  penmanship,  and  thor- 
oughly convincing  myself  it  was  the  work  of  Rivers,  "  I 
am  really  ashamed  to  have  occupied  your  time  so  long." 

"  Pray  don't  name  that.  It  is  my  desire,  as  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  telling  you  very  often,  to  have  no  useless 
concealment.  I  feel  that  there  is  a  degree  of  mystery 
surrounding  Miss  Street  that  ought  not  to  surround  any 
young  woman.  For  my  part,  I  hate  mysteries.  I  always 
find  something  that  requires  to  be  hidden  at  the  bottom 
of  a  mystery.  But  I  feel  sure  you  will  soon  know  Miss 
Street's  true  address,  for  they  are  very  anxious  about  the 
portrait ;  and  as  to  money,  there  is  no  lack  of  that." 

Thereupon  I  took  my  leave,  and  went  ruminating  west- 
ward. 

It  was  a  strange  affair  this  :  a  lovely  girl,  with  her 
strange  lover,  strange  brother,  mysterious  friend,  and  ad- 
dress at  a  post-office  ! 

I  was  not  kept  long  in  suspense,  for  two  days  after  my 
interview  with  Mrs.  Baker  I  received  a  letter  from  Miss 
Street,  announcing  her  regret  at  having  had  to  leave  Lon- 
don unexpectedly,  and  her  intention  of  coming  up  to  town 
one  jday  in  the  following  week.  The  letter  came  from 
Elm  Tree  House,  Alfrington,  near  Nottingham.  So  I  had 
an  address  at  last,  and  I  was  chuckling  over  it,  when  Cap- 
tain Hill  and  his  sister  were  announced.  They  came  pro- 
fessedly to  see  the  portrait ;  but  they  had  not  been  in  my 
studio  five  minutes  before  I  discovered  that  their  chief 
object  was  to  extract  from  me  any  information  I  might 
possess  about  my  mysterious  sitter. 

I  taxed  my  visitors  with  this,  and  they  confessed  it  so 
frankly  that  I  told  them  all  I  knew — which  was  little 


A   MYSTERIOUS   SITTER.  381 

enough — and  ended  by  giving  them  the  address  I  had  just 
received. 

The  captain  seized  the  letter,  eagerly  scanned  the  ad- 
dress— which  he  copied — and  declared  his  intention  of 
starting  at  once  for  Alfrington,  his  object  being,  as  he 
coolly  informed  me,  to  see  the  young  lady's  brother,  de- 
clare his  passion,  a,nd  take  his  chance. 

I  agreed  with  his  views,  wished  him  success,  and  we 
parted  capital  friends,  after  his  promise  to  let  me  know 
the  result  of  his  mission  on  his  return. 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  I  received  a  second  note 
from  Miss  Street,  deferring  her  visit  for  another  week  ; 
and  it  was  not  long  after  that  time  when,  on  returning 
from  my  afternoon  walk,  I  was  told  that  a  gentleman  was 
waiting  for  me  in  my  drawing-room.  There,  bending 
over  the  fire,  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand,  looking  pale 
and  worn,  I  found  Captain  Hill. 

He  apologized  for  intruding  upon  me,  pleading  as  his 
excuse  my  being  the  only  person  he  knew  who  took  any 
interest  in  Miss  Street. 

I  reassured  him,  and  asked  what  success  had  attended 
his  search. 

"  None,"  he  said;  "the  mystery  is  as  great  as  ever." 

"  But  surely,"  said  I,  "  you  have  seen  her  or  her  brother? 
You  went,  did  you  not,  to  their  house?" 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  he  said,  smiling  feebly;  "  but  such 
a  strange  one  that  you  must  hear  it.  I  left  London  by 
the  mail  train  in  the  evening  of  the  day  I  last  saw  you 
here — the  day  you  replied  to  Miss  Street's  note;  indeed, 
I  accompanied  your  letter,  for  I  went  by  the  train  that 
conveyed  it — and  next  morning  I  found  myself  in  Alfring- 
ton. Alfrington  is  the  beau-ideal  of  an  old  English  vil- 
lage :  little  gable-ended  cottages,  the  church  overgrown 
with  ivy,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — quite  rural,  you  know. 
I  put  up  at  an  old  inn,  with  a  landlord  to  match,  a  Boni- 
face of  the  old  school,  and  quite  as  slow.  He  waited  upon 
me  when  I  was  getting  my  breakfast,  and  by  way  of  say- 
ing something,  I  asked  him  if  the  Street  family,  or  any  of 
them,  ever  paid  him  a  visit.  I  thought  perhaps  the  inn 
might  be  their  property. 


382  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

" '  What  name,  sir  ?  The  name  of  Street  ?  No,  sir,  I 
never  heard  the  name  myself — never  know'd  anybody  of 
that  name  come  here,  sir.' 

" '  Well,  but  you  know  of  the  Street  family  who  live 
near  this  place,  don't  you  ?' 

"  '  Street  family  ?  Never  heard  of  a  family  by  that 
name  about  these  parts.  No,  sir.' 

"  I  finished  my  breakfast  without  any  further  attempt 
upon  my  landlord. 

"  It  struck  me  that  the  best  place  for  inquiry  would  be 
the  post-office,  and  to  that  place  I  was  going,  when  I  over- 
took a  man  who  looked  so  like  a  postman  that  I  asked  him 
if  he  was  not  that  functionary. 

" '  Yes,  I  am,  sir ;  the  only  one  here,  and  have  been  for 
a  good  bit.' 

"  Very  oddly  the  people  talk  there ;  really  difficult  to 
understand  at  times. 

"  '  Well,  then,'  said  I, '  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me 
whereabouts  Elm  Tree  House  is  ?  You  know  it,  no  doubt.' 

"'Helm  Tree  Hoose,  sir?'  (he  called  'house'  hoose). 
'  Can't  say  I  do  ;  and  I  know  all  the  houses  about  these 
parts  pretty  well,  too.' 

"  '  Elm  Tree  House,  near  Alfrington,'  said  I,  speaking 
each  word  very  slowly.  '  This  is  Alfrington,  is  it  not  ?' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  sir,'  he  said,  laughing,  '  this  is  Alfrington, 
sure  enough  ;  but  there  is  no  house  by  that  name  as  you 
speak  of  near  Alfrington,  I  know.' 

" '  The  devil  there  isn't !  Why,  a  friend  of  mine  re- 
ceives letters  from  Elm  Tree  House,  and  replies  to  them  ; 
in  fact,  is  in  correspondence  with  a  person  at  Elm  Tree 
House  ;  and  this  very  mail  has  brought  one  from  London 
to  that  address,  to  my  certain  knowledge.  What  do  you 
say  to  that?' 

"  '  Well,  sir — excuse  the  joke,  but  I  wish  they  may  get 
it,  sir.  Excuse  me.  laughing,  sir ;  no  offence.  I  shall  have 
to  deliver  it  at  a  place  that  I  never  heerd  on,  though  I 
have  been  postman  here  nigh  twenty  years.' 

"  '  Ah,  well ;  thank  you.  Do  you  know  the  family 
of —  Oh,  never  mind.  Will  you  kindly  direct  me  to 
the  post-office?' 


A   MYSTERIOUS   SITTER.  383 

"  '  To  be  sure,  sir.  There  you  are,  sir,  that  little  shop 
with  the  old-fashioned  window— that  bow-window  like — 
just  where  that  old  woman's  a-passing.  Good-day,  sir.' 

"  Now,  do  you  know,  Mr.  Frith,  I  really  did  begin  to 
think  it  very  strange  that  neither  from  my  landlord  nor 
from  the  postman — who,  of  all  men,  ought  to  have  known 
the  house  from  which  Miss  Street  had  undoubtedly  writ- 
ten to  you — could  I  get  the  least  information  ;  and,  in 
grave  doubts  as  to  what  I  should  do  next  if  the  postmas- 
ter failed  me,  I  made  my  way  to  the  little  shop  which  also 
did  duty  as  post-office.  A  man  behind  the  counter  was 
sorting  letters  as  I  entered ;  indeed,  I  thought  I  saw  yours 
among  them,  and  I  was  not  mistaken. 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  I ;  '  I  thought  you  would 
be  sure  to  be  able  to  direct  me  to  a  place  I  am  anxious  to 
find.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  where  Elm  Tree 
House  is,  somewhere  close  to  this  village?' 

"  '  Elm  Tree  House,'  said  the  man,  very  slowly ;  '  I  don't 
know  any  house  of  that  name  near  here.  There  is  no 
such  place  near  here,  sir.' 

" '  No  house  of  that  name  ?'  exclaimed  I,  now  really 
perplexed. 

"  '  No,  sir ;  and  here  is  a  letter  addressed  to  Elm  Tree 
House'  (showing  the  one  you  had  written)  'from  London, 
you  see,  sir.  It's  a  rum  thing,  this  is.  I  can't  make  it 
out,  no  more  can't  my  missis.' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  you  can't  make  out  ?'  said  I. 

"  '  Why,  you  see,  sir,  there  aren't  such  a  place  as  Elm 
Tree  House.  It's  a  fictitious  address,  that  is ;  but  I  had 
a  letter  myself  about  this  here  one,  so  I  knowed  it  was 
a-coming.' 

"  '  Oh,  you  knew  it  was  coming ;  you  knew  it  would 
come  by  this  post  to-day  ?' 

"  '  Yes ;  oh,  yes,  we  knowed  it  was  coming.  But  it's  a 
rum  thing ;  we  aren't  used  to  them  kind  of  tricks  here.' 

" '  What  sort  of  tricks?    What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?' 

" '  Why,  sir,  I  call  it  very  queer  when  I  get  a  letter, 
with  no  name  signed  to  it,  to  tell  me  a  letter  will  come 
from  London,  directed  to  a  place  when  there  aren't  no  such 
place.  I  call  that  very  rum,  I  do.' 


384  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

" '  Well,'  said  I,  '  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
the  letter  now  you  have  got  it  ?  You  can't  deliver  it,  that 
is  very  clear.' 

"  '  No,  sir,  we  ain't  got  to  deliver  it.  It's  to  be  fetched ; 
it's  to  wait  till  called  for.' 

"  '  And  who  is  to  call  for  it,  pray  ?' 

"  '  Ah,  that's  more  than  I  can  tell,  sir.  Him  as  wrote 
the  letter  with  no  name  to  it,  I  suppose.' 

"  '  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  man.  I  am  very  anxious 
to  see  who  fetches  this  letter.  It  will  be  called  for  pres- 
ently, no  doubt.  Have  you  any  objection  to  allow  me  to 
wait — there,  in  that  back-room  ?  Through  the  glass-door, 
I  can  see  from  behind  that  little  curtain.' 

"  The  man  entered  at  once  into  what  seemed  to  him  a 
capital  joke,  and  with  alacrity  he  ushered  me  into  a  small, 
close-smelling  parlor. 

"'There,  sir;  you  are  welcome  to  sit  here  as  long  as 
you  please;  you'll  disturb  nobody.  Me  and  my  missis  is 
not  troubled  with  a  family,  so  there  will  be  nothing  to 
disturb  you  neither.' 

"  '  Thank  you,'  said  I,  as  he  handed  me  a  chair ;  '  you 
must  let  me  give  you  this  for  your  trouble.' 

"  'Oh, no,  sir,  thank  you,  sir;  but  there  is  no  occasion 
for  that '  (pocketing  the  money).  '  You  are  welcome,  I'm 
sure,  sir — very  welcome.  You  won't  have  to  wait  long, 
sir  ;  and  if  you  just  raise  the  corner  of  the  blind,  like  that, 
you  can  see  anybody  that  comes  into  the  shop.  You  won't 
have  long  to  wait,  I  dare  say.' 

"  But  I  had  to  wait  long — very  long.  And  I  was  some- 
times tempted  to  wish  the  people  had  been  blessed  with 
a  family.  A  romp  with  children  would  have  beguiled  the 
time  better,  at  any  rate,  than  the  talk  of  the  '  missis,' 
which  related  almost  entirely  to  the  high  price  of  provis- 
ions. The  master  made  his  appearance  constantly,  with 
ever-varying  expressions  of  astonishment  at  the  non-ap- 
pearance of  a  claimant  for  the  letter,  now  and  again  bring- 
ing a  drum  of  figs,  and  enticing  me  to  soothe  my  impa- 
tience with  one  of  the  finest  figs  that  had  ever  entered  his 
shop.  Will  you  believe  that  I  watched  at  intervals  in 
that  back-parlor  from  Friday  morning  till  the  following 


A   MYSTERIOUS   8ITTKB.  385 

Tuesday,  and  no  one  came  for  your  letter?  And  do  yon 
know  that  I  believe  I  might  have  remained  watching  till 
the  present  moment,  and  have  watched  in  vain?  It  was 
known  I  was  there ;  I  feel  no  doubt  about  that.  At  length, 
tired  out,  I  left  for  Lincoln,  after  giving  the  postmaster 
my  address,  and  begging  him  to  let  me  know  instantly  if 
the  letter  was  fetched.  In  the  evening  of  the  day  of  my 
arrival  at  Lincoln,  I  got  this  letter  from  the  Alfrington 
postmaster : 

"  '  SIR, — You  had  not  been  gone  from  our  house  half  an  hour,  when  a 
party  came  and  asked  for  the  letter.     It  was  a  man — n  gentleman — a  tall 
party — a  stranger.     Not  hu\ing  seen  him  in  Alfrington  before. 
"  '  I  am,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

"  '  H.  GREEN  (Post-office).' 

"This  letter  reached  me  at  Lincoln,  as  I  told  you,  and 
you  may  imagine  my  state  of  mind  after  reading  it.  I 
was  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  My  Lincoln  friends 
were  Nottingham  people,  who  had  lived  in  that  town  for 
many  years,  having  removed  to  Lincoln  quite  recently.  I 
told  them  my  story,  and  succeeded  in  interesting  the  head 
of  the  family — a  shrewd  man  of  the  world  enough — who, 
after  convincing  himself  and  me  that  no  such  family  as 
the  Streets,  and  no  such  place  as  Elm  Tree  House,  existed 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Nottingham,  suggested  that  I 
should  write  a  letter  to  Mr.  Street  to  the  address — the  only 
address — he  had  given  to  Mrs.  Baker,  namely,  Post-office, 
Nottingham,  explaining  my  feelings  towards  his  sister, 
and  my  intentions  also  ;  appealing  to  him  as  a  gentleman 
to  reply  to  me,  and  explain  the  mystery  that  seemed  to  sur- 
round his  sister.  I  begged  him  to  tell  me  if  her  hand  were 
free;  and  if  it  should  not  be  free,  I  should  expect  that  my 
letters  would  be  returned  to  me. 

"The  letter  was  written  and  immediately  despatched, 
and  by  return  of  post  I  received  the  following  reply: 

"'Sin, — I  have  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  your  letter.  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  conceive  how  any  person  calling  himself  a  gentleman  could  have 
acted  as  I  find  you  have  done.  I  consider  your  conduct  in  addressing  a 
young  lady,  living,  as  my  sister  was,  under  the  protection  of  Mrs.  Baker, 
without  first  ascertaining  whether  your  attentions  were  approved  by  that 
lady,  not  to  say  by  MUa  Street's  relatives',  dishonorable  in  the  extreme. 
17 


386  MY    AUTOBIOGEAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

You  have  already  caused  deep  pain  and  anxiety  to  Miss  Street's  friends ; 
and  to  put  a  stop  to  any  further  attempts,  I  have  to  inform  you  that  my 
sister's  hand  and  affections  are  already  engaged.  As  to  the  explanation 
of  what  you  are  pleased  to  term  "  a  mystery,"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand what  you  mean.  This  is  the  first  time  that  such  a  term  has  been 
applied  to  what  concerns  my  family. 

"  '  I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 
" '  Captain  Hill,  etc.  "  '  B.  STREET. 

"  '  P.S.— I  return  your  letters.' " 

"Here,  my  dear  Mr.  Frith,"  said  Captain  Hill,  "ends 
all  I  can  learn  about  the  Street  family.  With  respect  to 
Mr.  Street's  amiable  epistle,  and  his  assertion  that  his 
sister's  affections  '  are  already  engaged,'  all  I  have  to  say 
is  that  I  will  not  rest  till  I  hear  the  truth,  or  falsehood,  of 
that  from  the  young  lady  herself." 

"  And  how  do  you  propose  to  manage  to  do  so  ?"  asked 
I ;  "  for  after  the  letter  you  have  just  shown  me,  signed 
by  Mr.  Street,  who  declares  himself  to  be  the  young  lady's 
brother,  it  must  be  obvious  to  you  that  I  cannot  lend  my- 
self to  an  assignation  here." 

"  The  lady's  brother  !"  exclaimed  the  captain.  "  The 
man  is  no  more  the  lady's  brother  than  I  am.  I  suspect 
him  to  be — no  matter  what — one  who  detains  her — one 
who  has  some  power  over  her  that  he  exercises  against 
her  consent.  After  what  has  taken  place  between  me  and 
Miss  Street  -I  am  confident  that  if  her  affections  are  en- 
gaged at  all,  they  are  engaged  to  me.  Even  in  my  sister's 
presence  she — but  why  should  I  bore  you  with  all  this? 
I  can  feel  with  you  that  you  cannot  permit  of  our  meeting 
here,  but  you  can  have  no  objection  to  tell  me  when  she  is 
to  sit  for  her  picture  again." 

"  I  have  heard  it  said,"  replied  I,  "  that  '  all  is  fair  in 
love  and  war.'  I  demur  to  the  aphorism  ;  and  unless  you 
will  give  me  your  word  that  you  will  not  attempt  to  see 
Miss  Street  in  this  house,  I  will  seal  my  lips  about  her 
sitting,  and  about  anything  I  may  learn  of  her  in  the 
future." 

The  captain  rose,  and  paced  the  room  in  great  agitation. 
After  a  while  he  said: 

"I  give  you  my  word  that  I  will  not  enter  your  house 
while  Miss  Street  is  in  it.  Will  that  do  ?" 


A    MYSTERIOUS   SITTER.  387 

"Yes.     She  sits  to-morrow." 

"  And  the  time  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Ah,  well,  you  are  very  cautious.  You  are  right,  no 
doubt.  All  that  remains  for  me  to  say  is  in  the  form  of 
warmest  thanks  to  you  for  listening  so  patiently  to  my 
troubles.  The  issue  of  them,  which  can't  be  far  off,  you 
shall  know." 

So  saying,  Captain  Hill  rose  to  go.  I  rang  for  my  ser- 
vant, who  speedily  appeared,  and  conducted  my  visitor 
down  the  steps  to  my  front-gate. 

Why  this  delay,  O  Susan,  my  servant  ?  What  can  the 
gallant  captain  have  to  say  to  you  ?  Can  that  be  a  note 
I  saw  you  put  into  your  pocket  as  you  came  smiling  up 
the  steps  ? 

Miss  Street  came  the  next  morning,  according  to  her 
promise,  but  scarcely  recognizable  as  the  same  girl ;  her 
color  replaced  by  a  dead  pallor,  her  spirits  gone,  and  her 
health  seemingly  broken.  Her  eyes  constantly  filled  with 
tears,  and  she  was  moody  and  abstracted.  In  reply  to  my 
inquiries,  she  said  her  brother  was  not  with  her.  She  was 
staying  at  Blank's  Hotel  in  Albemarle  Street  with  Mrs. 
Golden,  the  lady  who  accompanied  her,  and  she  intended 
to  return  to  Alfrington  at  the  end  of  the  week.  She  made 
one  or  two  attempts  to  resume  her  former  cheerfulness,  but 
failed  dismally;  and  the  result  as  regards  her  portrait  was 
unfortunate,  for  I  felt  that  the  last  sitting  was  damaging 
in  all  respects;  but  when  she  returned  from  putting  on 
cloak  and  bonnet  in  the  bedroom  (whither  she  had  been 
taken  by  my  housemaid,  Susan,  Mrs.  Golden  remaining 
with  me),  a  perfect  change  had  taken  place.  There  were 
the  old  radiant  manner  and  the  winning  smile. 

O  Susan,  faithless  domestic,  you  are  the  cause  of  this 
transfiguration  ! 

"Susan,"  said  I,  "you  have  given  Miss  Street  a  letter 
from  Captain  Hill !" 

"  Yes,  sir.    She  asked  me  if  I  hadn't  had  one  give  me  by . 
the  gentleman.     I  said  yes,  and  I  give  it  to  her." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  a  pretty —  And  what  did  she  do  with 
it,  pray  ?" 


388  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  "  she  was  like  a  mad  thing.  She 
kissed  the  letter  all  over,  and  hid  it  in  her  gownd." 

The  rest  of  the  story  of  my  mysterious  model  may  be  told 
in  Captain  Hill's  words,  as  well  as  I  can  remember  them. 
He  had  discovered — probably  guessed — that  Mr.  Street 
and  Mr.  William  Rivers  were  one  and  the  same  person. 
He  had  also  found  out  Miss  Street's  address  in  Albemarle 
Street,  and  to  Blank's  Hotel  he  betook  himself. 

"  I  asked  for  Miss  Street's  rooms,"  said  the  captain,  "  and 
was  shown  up-stairs.  A  gentleman  was  writing  at  a  table. 
He  rose  as  I  entered,  and  took  my  card  from  the  waiter. 
He  was  the  tall,  handsome  person  you  describe  Mr.  Rivers 
to  be,  and  when  he  had  read  my  name  he  turned  upon  me, 
his  face  absolutely  livid,  and  in  a  voice  quivering  with 
passion  he  said,  'What  is  the  meaning  of  this  visit?  I 
have  nothing  to  say  to  you.  These  are  my  private  rooms.' 
Then  looking  again  at  my  card,  he  continued,  'You  are 
the  man  who  has  been  pestering  Miss  Street  with  your  de- 
testable addresses.  I  must  insist  on  your  leaving  this  room.' 

" '  Not  till  I  have  had  some  explanation  of  your  position 
as  regards  Miss  Street.  You  are,  I  presume,  Mr.  William 
Rivers,  or  Mr.  Street,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  your- 
self. Miss  Street  is  of  age,  and  even  if  you  be  her  brother, 
which  I  take  leave  to  doubt,  you  will  have  to  convince  me 
of  your  right  to  control  her  inclinations  before  I  will  leave 
your  room.' 

" '  Sir,'  said  he,  '  I  altogether  dispute  your  right  to  ques- 
tion me.  I  see  by  your  card  that  you  are  the  person  who 
wrote  an  avowal  of  most  ungentlemanly  conduct,  and  I 
answered  you  ;  if  you  have  come  here  in  person  on  the 
same  errand,  you  will  receive,  viva  voce,  the  same  response.' 

"  This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  passion.  I  felt 
my  own  passion  rising  as  I  replied  : 

" '  Before  I  can  accept  your  decision  in  this  matter,  I 
will  be  satisfied  with  respect  to  your  relations  with  Miss 
Street,  and  your  right  of  answering  in  her  name.' 

"'My  —  my  relations  with  Miss  Street!'  exclaimed 
Rivers  (Rivers  he  was,  I  felt  sure).  Then,  after  a  pause 
of  some  moments,  in  which  he  succeeded  in  assuming  a 
calmer  manner,  he  said,  '  Will  you  be  satisfied — will  you 


A   MYSTERIOUS   SITTER.  389 

pledge  your  honor  to  cease  this  persecution,  if  you  hear 
the  lady's  determination  from  her  own  lips  ?' 

"'If  it  prove  unfavorable  to  me,'  said  I,  'I  will  never 
trouble  her  or  you  again.' 

"  '  This  you  declare  upon  your  honor  ?' 

"  '  Upon  my  honor.' 

"  Mr.  Rivers,  alias  Street,  went  to  an  inner  door,  opened 
it  gently,  and  called  '  Clara  !'  There  was  no  response.  In 
the  dead  stillness  the  beating  of  my  heart  was  painful. 
Presently  the  door  was  pushed  back,  and  Miss  Street  en- 
tered the  room.  Traces  of  recent  tears  were  on  her  cheeks ; 
she  turned  deadly  pale  on  seeing  me,  and  leaned  upon  a 
chair  for  support. 

" '  You  know  this  gentleman  ?  He  is  desirous  to  hear 
from  your  own  lips  that  the  letter  I  had  occasion  to  write 
to  him — declining,  on  your  behalf,  to  accept  his  addresses 
on  the  ground  of  your  affections  being  already  engaged — 
was  written  with  your  sanction  and  approval.' 

"  A  flood  of  tears  was  the  only  reply. 

" '  Pray  speak,  Clara.  Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  prom- 
ised to  me?  Do  you,  or  do  you  not,  owe  everything  to 
me — your  education,  your  position  in  the  world,  your — ' 

"'Yes,'  she  interrupted,  'I  owe  you  all  you  say,  and' 
(with  a  look  at  me  that  will  remain  with  me  as  long  as  I 
live)  'I  cannot  marry  any  one  but  you;  and  if  I  cannot 
feel  the  love  I  ought,  I  can  be  grateful,  and  will  always 
try  to  be  a  good  wife.' 

" '  There,  sir;  there,  you  hear! — why,  the  girl  is  about  to 
faint !  Go,  sir,  go  !  You  have  had  your  answer.'  " 

Captain  Hill  never  married.  His  regiment  went  to 
India,  and  I  read  the  captain's  name  in  a  list  of  the  se- 
verely wounded  after  one  of  the  frequent  battles  during 
the  mutiny.  Whether  he  died  or  recovered  from  his 
sword  and  love  wounds  I  never  knew;  nor  did  I  ever  hear 
more  of  the  fate  and  fortune  of  my  mysterious  model.* 

*  I  told  the  story  related  above  to  a  friend  many  years  ago,  and  it  was 
published  by  him  in  a  number  of  Temple  Bar  in  the  year  I860.  My  friend  put 
what  Sir  Walter  Scott  called  "  a  cockit-hat "  upon  it,  in  the  form  of  a  dra- 
matic ending  which  truth  compels  me  to  say  existed  only  in  my  friend's  imag- 
ination. The  facts,  interesting  or  not,  occurred  just  as  I  have  related  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

JOHN   FORSTER   AND    THE    PORTRAIT  OF    CHARLES   DICKENS. 

JOHN  FORSTER,  author  and  journalist,  was  the  inti- 
mate friend  of  Charles  Dickens.  On  casual  acquaintances 
Forster's  brusque  manner  produced  a  very  unfavorable 
impression;  but  when  he  became  better  known  it  was  evi- 
dent enough  that  the  rough  exterior  concealed  a  generous 
heart,  as  well  as  a  refined  mind.  I  think  it  was  in  1854 
that  I  first  made  Forsters  acquaintance  in  a  call  he  made 
upon  me  to  ask  me  to  paint  a  portrait  of  Dickens  for  him. 
To  this  I  gladly  assented,  and  something  was  said  (but 
nothing  definite)  about  fifty  pounds  as  the  sum  to  be  paid 
for  the  picture,  and  I  professed  myself  ready  to  begin  at 
any  time.  A  few  weeks  passed,  and  I  began  to  think  that 
either  Dickens  had  declined  to  sit,  or  that  Forster  had 
broken  his  engagement,  when  the  latter  came  to  me  in 
trepidation.  Dickens  had  started  a  mustache,  and  horri- 
fied his  friend.  The  portrait  must  wait ;  the  summer  must 
pass  away,  and  the  mustache  with  it.  Four  years  passed, 
but  the  mustache  remained.  The  disfigurement,  accord- 
ing to  Forster,  increased  by  a  beard,  which  almost  covered 
the  chin.  The  great  author  was,  as  I  have  already  said 
elsewhere,  deaf  to  all  appeals.  "  The  beard  saved  him 
the  trouble  of  shaving,  and  much  as  he  admired  his  own 
appearance  before  he  allowed  his  beard  to  grow,  he  ad- 
mired it  much  more  now,  and  never  neglected,  when  an 
opportunity  offered,  to  gaze  his  fill  at  himself.  If  his 
friends  didn't  like  his  looks,  he  was  not  at  all  anxious  for 
them  to  waste  their  time  in  studying  them;  and  as  to 
Frith,  he  would  surely  prefer  to  save  himself  the  trouble 
of  painting  features  which  were  so  difficult  as  a  mouth  and 
a  chin.  Besides,  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his  friends 
that  they  highly  approved  of  the  change,  because  they  now 
saw  less  of  him. 


JOHN    FOBSTEB   AND    CHARLES   DICKENS.  391 

I  think  the  following  letters  will  interest,  as  showing 
the  writer's  strong  desire  that  a  satisfactory  portrait  of 
Dickens  should  remain  when  all  connected  with  it  have 
passed  away.  I  desire  their  publication  very  earnestly, 
because  they  show  Forster's  true  character,  that  of  a  lib- 
eral, unselfish,  and  amiable  man,  too  generously  apprecia- 
tive of,  and  far  too  complimentary  to,  my  own  share  in 
the  Dickens  portrait : 

"  46  MOXTAGC  SQUARE,  W.,  March  29M,  1859. 

"  Mr  PKAR  FKITII, — My  wife,  who  has  the  double  purpose  of  seeing  Mrs. 
Frith  and  the  picture,  will  go  to  Pembridge  Villas  to-day — as  I  believe — 
and  whether  you  are  at  home  or  not.  Therefore,  she  expects  to  be  per- 
mitted to  see  it,  and  Mrs.  Frith. 

"For  myself,  I  never  doubted  your  perfect  success  from  the  first  mo- 
ment I  saw  the  canvas.  The  picture  is,  indeed,  all  I  wished — more  than 
I  dared  to  hope — because  I  know  what  a  ticklish  thing  a  likeness  is,  and 
how  portraits,  otherwise  admirable,  fail  often  in  that  without  which  all 
other  merits  must  fall  short.  I  most  sincerely  thank  you  for  all  the  kind 
exertions  you  have  made,  for  all  the  conscientious  pains  and  labor  you 
have  given. 

"  I  was  about  to  write,  when  I  had  your  letter,  to  ask  you  to  be  so  kind 
as  to  tell  me  the  price  in  which  I  am  indebted  to  you  for  the  picture. 
When  that  is  settled,  I  am  glad  to  think  that  I  shall  still  remain  your 
debtor,  for  that  zeal  and  care  and  interest  which  I  cannot  repay.  You 
will,  I  am  sure,  kindly  let  me  know  as  to  this. 

"  I  fear  you  will  think  me  churlish,  but,  though  I  cannot  go  into  the 
reasons  now,  I  shall  hope  hereafter  that  I  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  con- 
vince you  that  my  reasons  are  not  very  selfish,  for  not  wishing  or  proposing 
that  the  portrait  should  be  cngraveJ.  I  should  grieve,  indeed,  if  this  in- 
volved anything  contrary  to  a  wish  you  have  formed.  Indeed,  I  think  my 
reasons,  good  as  I  think  them,  could  hardly  be  held  against  that. 

"As  to  the  other  subject  of  your  note,  I  will  make  immediate  inquiry  as 
to  that.  I  know  the  lord  mayor  and  some  of  the  aldermen  very  well.  But 
I'll  write  further  as  to  that  Forgive  great  haste  now.  (I'll  call  before 
the  picture  goes  in.) 

"  Ever,  my  dear  Frith,  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  JOHN  FonsntR." 

"46  MOSTAGC  SQCARJE,  W.,  April  8/A,  1859. 

"Mr  DEAR  Fimn, — I  found  your  letter,  dated  the  5th,  on  my  table  in 
Whitehall  Place  yesterday  morning.  I  had  already  written  to  you  (on 
Wednesday)  of  the  great  pleasure  the  completed  picture  gave  me.  I  saw 
it  on  Saturday  afternoon,  when  I  left  a  special  message  for  you ;  but  I 
had  no  card  with  me,  and  doubtless  your  servant  forgot  to  tell  you  I  had 
called. 

"  What  you  say  of  the  interest  expressed  in  the  portrait  docs  not  in  the 


392  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

least  surprise  me.  I  knew  always  that  such  would  be  the  effect  of  a  suc- 
cessful likeness,  by  such  a  painter  as  yourself,  of  a  man  so  popular  as 
Dickens ;  and  as  frankly  I  will  say  to  you,  that  I  have  ever  regarded  the 
interest  so  likely  to  be  inspired  by  this  portrait,  not  as  a  matter  in  which 
strangers  were  to  be  permitted  to  speculate,  but  as  a  part  of  the  property 
or  possession  to  which  my  old  friendship  with  Dickens  entitled  me,  when 
the  time  for  redemption  of  his  old  promise  to  sit  for  me,  so  often  renewed 
and  so  long  waited  for,  showld  arrive.  Assuming  that  I  am  warranted  in 
saying  (for  confirmation  or  disproof  of  which  you  will  naturally  refer  to  him- 
self) that  Dickens  so  consented  to  sit  as  a  special  favor  to  me,  I  hope  that, 
without  any  particular  selfishness,  I  may  venture,  in  so  far  as  this  portrait 
is  concerned,  to  put  forward  some  claim  to  share  in  that  origination  or  in- 
vention of  the  subject  which  in  effect  constitutes  its  '  copyright.' 

"  You  will  at  the  same  time  do  me  the  justice  to  admit,  that  in  this  or 
any  other  respect  I  have  had  no  concealment  from  you.  I  felt  that  such 
a  question  might  arise;  and  I  asked  Dickens,  if  the  opportunity  pre- 
sented itself  to  him,  to  express  to  you  unreservedly  my  objection  to  hav- 
ing the  portrait  engraved.  I  was  also  specially  anxious  that  this  should 
be  clearly  conveyed  to  you  before  you  were  requested  to  fix  the  price  of 
the  picture.  For,  of  course,  I  threw  over  altogether  what  had  passed  upon 
that  part  of  the  subject  (through  our  friend  Egg)  when  you  first  under- 
took the  portrait,  four  years  ago ;  and  I  endeavored,  as  plainly  as  I  might,  in 
writing  the  other  day  to  ask  you  to  name  the  price,  to  imply  that  the  sum 
to  be  stated  should  exclude  ulterior  arrangements  as  to  copyright. 

"  Most  desirous  have  I  also  been  to  make  it  clear  to  you  that  I  sought 
no  pecuniary  or  speculative  advantage  for  myself  in  all  this — that,  in  fact, 
I  had  made  such  a  disposition  of  the  picture,  after  my  death,  as  precluded 
any  such  possibility  now  or  at  any  future  time.  I  have  bequeathed  the 
portrait  to  the  National  Collection,  as  (thinking  it  might  not  displease  you 
to  know  so  much)  I  told  you  that  it  was  my  intention  to  do  before  you 
began  to  paint  it. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  detain  you  so  long  with  matter  so  strictly  personal. 
But  I  should  grieve  indeed  if  you  thought  I  had  not  behaved  throughout 
with  perfect  candor,  as  well  as  fairly  and  justly.  Retaining  the  views  I 
have  held  and  stated  all  along,  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  adhere  to  my 
objection  in  the  matter  of  the  engraving ;  but  I  will  give  )-ou  for  the  por- 
trait (it  being  understood  that  it  comes  to  me  direct  from  the  Academy) 
double  the  sum  you  have  asked  in  your  letter  of  the  5th — namely,  three 
hundred  guineas.  And  I  have  only  to  add  that  this  arrangement  will  be 
quite  satisfactory  to  me — that  it  will  leave  me  grateful  to  you  for  all  the 
pains  and  care  you  have  taken,  and  that  I  shall  continue  to  consider  my- 
self, with  every  feeling  of  admiration  and  regard,  your  debtor  in  a  trans- 
action with  which  I  shall  never  associate  any  but  the  most  pleasant  re- 
membrances. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  line  in  reply,  kindly  confirming  this  arrangement  ? 
and  believe  me, 

"  My  dear  Frith,  most  sincerely  yours, 

"  JOHN  FOUSTER." 


JOHN   FOBSTER    AND    CHARLES    DICKENS.  393 

"46  MONTAGU  SQUARE,  W.,  Monday,  April  llt/it  '59. 
"  Mv  DEAR  FRITH, — I  enclose  a  check  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  guineas, 
and  will  send  you  another  similar  check  (for  same  amount)  in  July.  If 
the  delay  in  the  latter  payment,  however,  should  be  in  the  least  degree  in- 
conrenient  to  you,  pray  do  not  scruple  to  say  so,  and  (without  any  real  in- 
convenience to  myself)  you  shall  have  it  next  month. 

"  Perhaps,  in  sending  two  lines  of  acknowledgment  as  to  safe  receipt  of 
enclosed,  you  will  kindly  express  that  it  is  the  first  half  of  the  sum  of,  etc., 
etc.,  in  payment  for  the  Dickens  portrait  and  copyright.  We  do  not  want 
any  such  memorandum  for  ourselves,  but  it  is  well  to  save  others  from  any 
possible  misunderstanding. 

"  Yours,  my  dear  Frith,  always  most  truly, 

"Joiix  FORSTKI  ." 

"  46  MONTAGU  SQUARE,  W.,  May  Zd,  1859. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRITH, — A  great  pressure  has  been  put  upon  me  by  some 
friends — particularly  Mr.  Macrcady,  who  has  been  very  urgent  indeed  with 
his  remonstrances — in  the  matter  of  permitting  the  Dickens  picture  to  be 
engraved. 

"  Upon  the  whole,  I  do  not  feel,  therefore,  that  I  have  been  quite  right 
in  the  tone  I  took,  and  I  am  content  to  withdraw  the  objection  I  formerly 
expressed. 

"  The  only  condition  I  should  hope  I  may  be  able  to  make,  would  be  to 
impose  a  certain  ascertained  and  definite  limit  of  time  for  the  engraver  to 
return  me  the  picture  in. 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough,  then,  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  ? 

"  I  need  hardly,  of  course,  say,  that  whatever  is  given  by  the  publisher 
beyond  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  offered  by  me  for  the  copyright,  I  shall 
be  rejoiced  to  think  that  you  will  obtain. 

"  Believe  me  ever,  most  truly  yours, 

"JOHN  FORSTER." 

"46  MONTAGU  SQUARE,  Friday  Xiglit,  &lh  May,  '59. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRITH, — I  am  glad  you  are  pleased,  because  that  helps  me 
through  the  difficulty  I  still  felt.  I  yielded  to  others — not  to  any  convic- 
tion of  my  own.  And  as  '  Hudibras  '  says  of  the  man  convinced  against 
his  will,  I  am  naturally  of  my  own  opinion  still.  But  I  saw  that  it  might 
hereafter  be  fairly  made  matter  of  reproach  to  me,  and  that,  as  I  should 
probably  have  to  yield  some  day,  it  was  better  to  do  so  in  the  first  fresh- 
ness of  the  picture,  and  when  the  person  best  entitled  to  profit  by  the  ar- 
rangement— yourself — would  have  the  opportunity  of  doing  so.  And  in 
this  you  have  the  whole  truth  of  the  case. 

"  I  earnestly  hope  that  it  will  be  limited  decisively  to  the  twelve  months, 
and  as  I  think  I  have  some  knowledge  of  Mr.  Barlow,  as  an  obliging  and 
gentlemanly  man,  as  well  as  a  most  skilful  engraver,  I  shall  propose  some 
early  meeting  between  him  and  you  and  myself,  with  a  view  to  an  ar- 
rangement of  periods  most  suitable  and  satisfactory  to  us  all.  I  should 
be  glad  if  he  could  so  arrange  as  to  be  ready  for  the  picture  when  it 
17* 


394  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

leaves  the  Academy,  and  take  his  first  look  at  it  then.     But,  of  course, 
his  time  must  be  studied  as  well  as  mine. 

"  Will  you  kindly  direct  that  the  frame-maker  send  me  his  bill  ? 
"And  as  Dickens  dines  quietly  here  on  Monday  next  at  half-past  six, 
and  I  have  just  written  off  to  ask  Egg,  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed  if  you 
happen  to  be  disengaged  and  can  come  also.     Only  ourselves. 
"  Always  most  truly  yours, 

"  JOHN  FORSTER." 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

SECOND    VISIT   TO   TUB   LOW    COUNTRIES. 

I  DERIVED  so  much  pleasure  and,  I  fancy,  improvement 
from  my  visit  to  Holland  in  1850,  that  I  determined  to  pay 
the  Low  Countries  a  second  visit,  and  that  resolution  was 
now  to  be  carried  out.  I  had  just  suffered  a  heavy  do- 
mestic bereavement,  and  a  change  for  my  daughters  as 
well  as  for  myself  became  very  desirable.  We  therefore 
took  ship  for  Belgium  on  an  early  day  in  May,  and,  with 
a  rapidity  that  would  have  astonished  our  forebears,  ar- 
rived in  Brussels.  I  had  never  seen  the  Wiertz  collection, 
said  to  be  the  work  of  a  madman,  and  familiar  no  doubt 
to  many  of  my  readers.  The  sight  of  Wicrtz's  pictures  is 
enough  to  convince  one  of  the  truth  of  Dryden's  lines : 

"Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  tbin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide." 

In  the  case  of  this  brilliant  man  the  thin  partition  had 
given  way — at  intervals  only,  I  think.  At  the  end  of  his 
gallery  there  is  a  magnificent  composition  worthy  of  Ru- 
bens— a  Last  Judgment,  Fall  of  the  Damned,  or  some  such 
thing  —  splendid  in  drawing,  coloring,  and  composition. 
Other  works  no  doubt  disclose  a  "mind  o'erthrown" — 
people  struggling  to  release  themselves  from  coffins,  blow- 
ing off  their  heads,  and  otherwise  indulging  in  mad  freaks. 

The  visit  to  Wiertz  was  a  sad  one  to  me,  convincing  me, 
as  it  did,  that  but  for  the  inscrutable  missing  of  one  link 
in  the  intellectual  chain  the  artist  might  have  added  his 
name  to  the  roll  of  the  great  painters  of  the  world. 

The  great  gallery  at  Brussels  does  not  contain  much  to 
reward  the  painter-visitor.  The  Rubens  pictures  are  not 
of  his  best,  always  excepting  the  Crucifixion,  in  which 
masterly  drawing  and  splendid  color  vie  with  each  other. 


396  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

• 

The  figure  of  the  Saviour,  flanked  by  the  thieves,  is  admi- 
rable; but  the  writhing  body  of  the  impenitent  thief— 
whose  roar  of  agony  can  almost  be  heard  as  cruel  blows 
fall  upon  him — is  beyond  admiration,  equal  as  it  is  to  the 
best  Avork  of  the  great  master.  From  my  recollection  of 
the  Hague  and  its  great  collections,  I  was  so  eager  to  see 
if  a  second  visit  would  confirm  my  favorable  impression  of 
the  first  that  I  hurried  away  from  Brussels,  and  arrived  in 
lovely  weather  at  a  place  which  must  be  a  delight  to  all 
who  visit  it,  whether  they  are  picture-lovers  or  not.  Our 
hotel  gave,  as  they  call  it,  on  to  a  park  with  deer  almost 
up  to  the  door,  and  such  walks !  miles  of  avenues  like  ca- 
thedral aisles,  with  trees  for  columns,  and  interweaving 
branches  overhead  for  Gothic  roof -work ;  and  the  gal- 
lery containing  the  finest  work  of  the  Dutch  school!  I 
spent  hours  with  Rembrandt,  Jan  Stein,  Teniers,  Ostade, 
Cuyp,  Franz  Halls,  and  other  immortals — wondering,  ever 
wondering,  that  in  no  country  in  the  world  could  we  now 
match  these  men.  Religion  did  not  inspire  them ;  some 
of  their  finest  works  were  produced  in  troublous  times, 
when  civil  broil  or  foreign  levy  distracted  their  country; 
some,  stranger  still,  when  the  painters  were  mere  boys. 
Paul  Potter,  whose  bull  is  a  masterpiece  of  world-wide 
fame,  died  at  the  age  of  nine-and-twenty.  Rembrandt's 
famous  dissecting-picture  was  finished  before  he  was  twen- 
ty-six. These  things  were  done  at  a  time  of  life  at  which 
our  youths  are  still  struggling  with  the  antique  in  the 
Academy  schools.  I  must,  however,  claim  for  the  modern 
artist  that  he  is  placed  at  a  terrible  disadvantage  when 
compared  with  the  painters  of  the  Dutch  school — in  re- 
spect of  the  life  that  is  always  before  him.  Let  my  reader 
make  a  mental  comparison  between  a  group  of  bank-holi- 
day-makers disporting  themselves  on  Hampstead  Heath 
and  an  array  of  peasantry  in  a  picture  by  Teniers  or  Jan 
Stein — the  former  either  dirty  or  primly  smug,  but  in  form 
and  color  eminently  unpicturesque ;  the  latter  gay,  with 
bright  colors  and  dresses  that  call  aloud  to  be  painted. 
Some  of  our  painters,  feeling  this  so  strongly,  hurry  off  to 
Spain  and  Venice,  with  the  happy  result  that  we  see  in  the 
works  of  my  friends  Fildes,  Woods,  and  Burgess.  But, 


SECOND    VISIT   TO   THE    LOW   COUNTRIES.  397 

admirable  as  the  works  of  these  men  are,  their  producers 
would  be  the  last  to  admit  that  they  were  on  a  level  with 
their  brethren  of  old.  At  the  Hague  we  found  Millais,  to 
my  great  satisfaction,  and  it  was  delightful  to  hear  his 
fresh  and  frank  appreciation  of  those  great  masters. 

We  went  to  see  the  collection  belonging  to  a  count 
somebody  or  something,  where  were  a  few  fine  things  and 
much  rubbish — strange  mixture.  One  would  think  the 
full  appreciation  of  the  one  would  insure  the  exclusion  of 
the  other ;  but  "  'tis  ever  thus "  in  private  galleries,  and 
more  than  it  should  be  in  public  ones.  Millais  and  his 
friends  went  with  us  to  Amsterdam.  Unfortunately  the 
magnificent  collection  at  this  place  was  housed  in  small, 
ill-lighted  rooms,  since  changed  for  appropriate  galleries. 
Opposite  to  each  other  were  Rembrandt's  "Night  Watch" 
and  Van  der  Heist's  famous  "  Meeting  of  Burghers  of  the 
Archers'  Guild,"  each  in  its  way  a  masterpiece;  though  I 
confess  I  have  seen  many  pictures  by  Rembrandt  that  I 
prefer  to  this  large  work.  The  figures  are  all  ill-drawn 
and  out  of  proportion,  and  the  Jight  and  shadow  are  some- 
what artificial ;  the  people  are  illumined  by  something  that 
resembles  neither  day  nor  lamplight,  and  the  picture  seemed 
to  me  to  suffer  in  comparison  with  the  absolute  reality  and 
truth  of  the  Van  der  Heist,  every  figure  in  which  work  is 
marked  with  the  strongest  individuality — a  bright,  clear 
daylight  pervading  the  crowd  of  figures ;  each  taking  its 
place,  and  painted  with  a  vigor  and  completeness  that 
makes  this  one  of  the  great  pictures  of  the  world.  Then 
the  delightful  examples  that  meet  you,  in  every  part  of  the 
rooms,  of  all  the  marvellous  Dutchmen!  Franz  Halls  sits 
like  a  living  man  in  a  garden  with  his  wife,  whose  sweet 
face  smiles  at  you  with  an  evanescent  expression  that  you 
expect  will  change  as  you  look. 

At  Haarlem  there  is  a  gallery  filled  with  pictures  by 
this  man  (who  lived  to  a  great  age,  and  worked  till  the 
end  of  it),  which  greatly  resemble  the  style  of  Millais. 
All  these  works  represent  companies  of  his  countrymen, 
jovial  gatherings,  military  assemblies,  parochial  meetings, 
and  the  like  ;  their  value  resting — after  the  splendid  dash 
and  brilliancy  of  the  execution — on  their  absolute  truth ; 


398  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

a  quality,  I  think,  unattainable  except  under  similar  con- 
ditions. 

The  Six  family,  whose  burgomaster  ancestor  was  the 
friend  and  patron  of  Rembrandt,  still  exists  at  Amster- 
dam. I  had  heard  that  the  house  inhabited  by  the  pres- 
ent Six  contained  many  examples  of  the  great  Dutchman, 
but  they  were  difficult  of  access.  I  therefore  armed  my- 
self with  an  introduction,  kindly  given  me  by  Tadema, 
and  wended  my  way  to  the  family  mansion,  an  unpretend- 
ing house  close  to  one  of  the  canals.  Over  a  bell  by  the 
front-door  was  the  name  of  Six,  in  small  black  letters.  I 
was  admitted,  and  shown  into  a  room  which,  but  for  a 
few  modern  appliances,  is  exactly  in  the  condition  in  which 
Rembrandt  so  often  visited  it.  His  pictures  hang  on  the 
wall  in  their  original  black  frames,  and  among  them  is  a 
wonderful  head  of  the  burgomaster;  the  portrait  finished 
except  the  hands.  I  was  told  that  a  dispute  with  the  pa- 
tron had  occurred  during  the  progress  of  the  likeness,  and 
the  irate  painter  had  refused  to  complete  his  work.  Wheth- 
er that  was  so  or  not,  the  picture  remains  to  us,  a  marvel 
and  a  delight  for  all  time. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
TOE  DOCTOB'S  STOBY. 

MESSES.  EDWARD  AND  WILLIAM  FINDEN  were  engrav- 
ers of  considerable  reputation  forty  years  ago.  William, 
the  younger,  produced  some  exquisite  book-plates,  and  oth- 
ers of  more  importance.  The  smaller  prints  appeared  in 
the  "Annuals"  which  were  so  popular  during  the  first 
quarter  of  the  century  and  far  into  the  second.  They 
were  legion,  the  "  Book  of  Gems  "  being  perhaps  the  most 
popular.  After  a  long  reign  the  public  wearied  of  them, 
and  one  after  another  they  ceased  to  exist.  The  Findens, 
Heath,  and  other  "Annual"  publishers  found  the  neces- 
sity of  catering  for  their  many  readers  in  other  forms. 
Heath  hit  upon  the  "Book  of  Beauty,"  with  Lady  Bles- 
sington  as  editor  of  it.  The  contents  consisted  of  short 
stories  and  poems  of  unequal  merit,  and  many  of  the  beau- 
ties of  London  were  pressed  into  the  service,  and  figured 
as  beauties ;  a  claim,  judging  from  some  specimens,  to 
which  they  had  no  right  whatever.  The  Findens'  vent- 
ure was  in  the  form  of  a  series  of  female  heads,  in  oval 
shape,  from  Moore's  poems,  and  the  title  fixed  upon  was 
"  The  Beauties  of  Moore."  A  number  of  young  artists 
living  in  intimate  intercourse — myself,  Egg,  Elmore,Ward, 
and  others — agreed  to  contribute.  The  sums  we  received 
for  each  picture  varied  from  ten  to  fifteen  pounds.  "  Les- 
bia,"  "  Norah  Crcina,"  "  Wicked  Eyes,"  and  "  Holy  Eyes," 
and  many  more,  fell  to  me;  so  many,  indeed,  that  I  used 
up  all  the  pretty  models  and  any  of  my  Well-favored  friends 
that  I  could  persuade  to  sit.  "  Holy  Eyes  "  became  a  great 
difficulty.  None  of  our  models  had  features  or  expressions 
that  could  help  one  to  realize  Moore's  beautiful  lines: 

"Some  looks  there  are  so  holy, 

They  seem  but  given 

As  shining  beacons  solely 

To  lijrht  to  heaven." 


400  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Nor  could  I  discover  among  my  acquaintances  a  form  that 
would  assist  me.  On  telling  a  friend  of  my  difficulty,  he 
said,  "  I  think  I  can  introduce  you  to  a  young  lady  who 
would  be  exactly  what  you  want." 

My  friend,  who  was,  and  had  long  been,  an  invalid,  then 
told  me  that  his  doctor,  a  man  named  Rose,  in  very  fail- 
practice,  had  recently  married  a  young  and  beautiful  girl. 

"  They  are  both  coming  to  dine  with  me,"  said  he. 
"Come  and  meet  them,  and  then,  if  you  find  the  lady 
won't  do,  nothing  need  be  said.  If,  on  the  contrary,  you 
find  that  I  am  right  in  my  judgment  of  her,  I  think  I  can 
promise  that  Rose  will  only  be  too  pleased  to  let  her  sit." 

On  the  appointed  day  I  put  in  an  early  appearance;  and 
never  can  I  forget,  if  subsequent  and  fearful  events  had 
failed  to  fix  themselves  upon  my  memory,  the  vision  of 
exquisite  loveliness  that  appeared,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
a  somewhat  saturnine-looking  man  considerably  older  than 
herself.  Anything  nearer  to  the  complete  ideal  of  female 
loveliness  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive. 

She  was  tall,  of  a  perfect  figure.  Her  features  recalled 
the  most  beautiful  of  the  antique  statues;  the  statuesque 
perfection  of  her  form  was  inspired  by  an  expression  I 
could  not  paint,  and  cannot  describe  beyond  saying  that 
it  was  like  that  we  find  in  the  angels  of  Botticelli — purity 
and  holiness  combined;  and  if,  as  I  for  one  believe,  the 
face  is  the  index  of  the  mind,  then  that  mind  should  have 
been  one  that  no  mean,  sordid,  or  sensual  thought  could 
enter. 

The  dinner  was  gay.  The  saturnine  doctor  told  some 
good  medical  stories.  And  after  dinner,  when  a  whisper 
from  me  to  my  friend  expressed  my  delight,  and  the  hope 
that  he  might  succeed  in  obtaining  the  great  favor  for  me, 
he  immediately  went  to  the  doctor  and  broached  the  sub- 
ject. I  watched  the  grave  face  anxiously  enough,  but 
could  make  no  guess  as  to  the  success  or  failure  of  my 
friend,  who  presently  returned  to  me  and  informed  me  that 
Dr.  Rose  would  "  think  about  it."  This  did  not  look 
quite  hopeful.  The  evening  ended  by  the  doctor  asking 
me  for  my  address;  he  then  promised  that  he  would  call 
and  talk  my  request  over. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY.  401 

In  a  few  days  the  promised  visit  was  paid.  At  his  re- 
quest I  showed  him  two  or  three  of  the  pictures  just  com- 
pleted, and  explained  to  him  my  straits  in  the  matter  of 
"  Holy  Eyes." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  can  see  that  my  wife  would  do ;  and 
if  you  can  persuade  her  to  sit — I  have  as  yet  said  nothing 
to  her  on  the  subject — I  can  have  no  objection.  Will  you 
dine  with  us  on  any  disengaged  day  ?  You  have  my  card. 
You  will  find  my  address  No.  —  Harley  Street." 

A  day  was  fixed,  and  the  first  sitting  followed  speedily. 
I  found  Mrs.  Rose  in  every  respect  delightful.  She  drew 
fairly  well,  and  had  much  love  and  taste  for  art.  The 
sittings  were  too  agreeable  to  allow  of  their  being  hurried 
over.  I  introduced  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Rose  to  my  mother,  who 
lived  in  Osnaburgh  Street  with  my  brother,  sister,  and 
myself — my  painting-room  being  in  Charlotte  Street,  Fitz- 
roy  Square.  An  unusually  rapid  intimacy  sprang  up  be- 
tween us  all.  We  were  constantly  at  each  other's  houses; 
and  the  more  I  saw  of  the  Roses,  the  better  I  liked  them. 
It  seems  an  odd  remark  to  make  at  this  point  of  my  true 
story;  but  the  disclosure  is  necessary  to  account  in  some 
degree  for  subsequent  events.  Rose  never  had  the  sense 
of  smell. 

One  night,  when  I  was  reading  in  the  dining-room,  and 
meditating  an  immediate  retirement  to  bed,  I  heard  a  loud 
ringing  of  the  front-door  bell,  repeated  still  louder  almost 
immediately.  The  servants  and  the  rest  of  the  family  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  the  house  was  closed  for  the  night.  I 
hurried  to  the  front  door,  and,  before  I  could  open  it,  the 
bell  rang  again.  To  my  amazement  I  found  Rose,  seem- 
ingly wet  through — for  the  night  was  very  stormy — his 
face  marked  with  lines  of  passion  and  despair  to  such  an 
extent  as  actually  to  change  the  man's  appearance  almost 
beyond  recognition. 

"Why,  Rose,  what's  the  matter?" 

"  Let  me — let  me  in,"  he  answered,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Great  Heaven,"  thought  I,  "  is  the  man  ill,  or  drunk, 
or  what?"  I  supported  him  into  the  dining-room. 

"Now,  dear  fellow,  tell  me  what  has  induced  you  to 
knock  me  up  at  this  time  of  night." 


402  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

"  Is  that  soda  water  ?" 

"  Yes ;  have  some  ?" 

"And  brandy,  if  you've  got  it." 

"Now  then,  what  is  it  that  distresses  you  so?" 

By  this  time  the  doctor's  face  was  buried  in  his  hands, 
and  his  tears  and  sobs  were  awful  to  witness.  After  a 
seemingly  desperate  struggle  with  himself,  he  looked  into 
my  face  with  an  expression  in  his  own  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, and  then  said,  calmly, 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  that  you  won't  be- 
lieve." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  I,  with  a  forced  smile.    "  What  is  it?" 

"  What  is  it — my  God !  what  is  it  ?  Why,  it's  just  this 
— my  wife  is  a  drunkard." 

"  You  must  be  mad  to  say  such  a  thing." 

"Am  I?  Well,  you  go  and  see  for  yourself,  my  dear 
fellow.  She  is  lying  maudlin  drunk  on  the  sofa  at  this 
moment,  and  I  see  now  she  has  been  drunk  night  after 
night.  I  go  out  a  good  deal,  you  know,  night  and  day. 
Several  times  lately,  when  I  have  returned,  I  have  found 
her  sitting  up  for  me  in  a  kind  of  semi-unconscious  con- 
dition— stupefied  with  sleep  and  fatigue  I  thought,  per- 
haps. Well,  to-night  I  found  her  in  the  same  kind  of  al- 
most epileptic  state,  and  by  her  side  a  tumbler  with  some 
white  liquid.  I  tasted  it,  and  it  was  gin!  I  could  not 
smell  it.  I  can't  smell  anything,  or  I  might  have  found 
her  out  weeks  ago,  for  I  now  hear  from  that  d — d  old 
nurse  of  hers — what  a  fool  I  was  to  let  that  woman  into 
the  house! — that  she  has  been  at  it  for  months  —  for 
months,  I  tell  you,  beginning  with  brandy  which  that  in- 
fernal woman  gave  her  for  some  trifling  ailment.  Now 
look  here,  Frith :  I  haven't  come  here  only  to  tell  you  all 
this.  I  want  you  and  another  friend  of  mine,  a  lawyer,  to 
take  the  business  into  your  hands,  and  arrange  for  a  sepa- 
ration, for  I  will  never  live  with  that  woman  another 
day."  This  he  emphasized  with  an  oath  too  fearful  to 
repeat. 

I  spent  hours  that  night  in  reasoning  with  the  poor  fel- 
low ;  and  I  succeeded  at  last  in  talking  him  into  a  calmer 
condition  of  mind. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STOBY.  403 

"  Go  home  now.  I  will  go  to  Darrell,  the  lawyer,  in  the 
morning,  and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

He  left  me  a  shattered  and  most  unhappy  man.  Darrell 
and  I  agreed  that  an  attempt  should  be  made  to  reform 
this  young  creature.  We  saw  her,  and  after  the  first  hor- 
ror of  having  to  acknowledge  her  dreadful  habits  to  us, 
she  declared  solemnly  and  eagerly  that  if  her  husband 
would  forgive  her,  she  would  consent  to  be  placed  in  any 
institution  he  might  appoint,  and  go  through  the  severest 
discipline  for  any  length  of  time.  She  felt  confident,  she 
said,  that  if  the  temptation  were  placed  beyond  her  reach 
for  a  short  time  even,  she  would  lose  the  taste  for  it,  and 
a  cure  would  be  easy.  She  was  very  young,  not  much 
past  nineteen,  and  it  was  impossible  to  see  this  fair  young 
thing  and  listen  to  her  pleading  without  being  very  much 
touched  by  it.  Our  difficulty  was  with  the  husband.  For 
a  long  time  he  would  not  listen  to  us. 

"She  might  go,  and  she  should  go  ;  she  can  drink  her- 
self to  death,  and  then  she  will  trouble  nobody  any  more. 
And  who,  pray,  ever  heard  of  a  woman,  who  had  once  ac- 
quired the  habit,  being  reformed  ?" 

"  I  have,"  said  Darrell,  "  four  in  my  experience,  and 
they  were  all  older  than  your  wife." 

"Are  you  telling  me  the  truth  now,  or  is  that  what  you 
lawyers  call  a  legal  fiction  ?" 

"  It  is  the  solemn  truth,"  said  Darrell. 

We  at  last  wrung  from  him  a  consent  that  the  trial 
should  be  made,  and  it  was  made  on  the  morning  follow- 
ing. The  Dipsomaniacal  Institute  was  given  up,  and  the 
young  lady  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  two  elderly 
French  ladies,  who  kept  a  school  at  Bridgewater — what  is 
called,  I  believe,  a  finishing  school,  where  only  girls  of  a 
mature  age  are  admitted.  These  ladies  were,  of  course, 
made  acquainted  with  every  particular,  and  they  cheer- 
fully undertook  the  attempt  at  a  cure. 

Eighteen  months  passed  away,  bringing  us  (Rose  would 
not  hear  of  direct  communication  with  himself)  at  inter- 
vals most  cheering  accounts.  Mrs.  Rose  was  the  delight 
of  all  with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  At  first  every- 
thing in  the  shape  of  wine  and  beer  was  kept  out  of  her 


404  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

sight;  but  soon  she  could  be  trusted  to  see  them,  though 
never  to  taste  them,  and  she  never  showed  the  least  desire 
to  touch  wine,  beer,  or  spirits;  in  fact,  she  assured  the 
elder  of  the  French  ladies  that  it  was  a  mystery  which 
perplexed  her  much,  how  she  could  ever  have  drunk  what 
was  offensive  to  her  now — even  to  smell.  All  this  was 
communicated  to  Dr.  Rose ;  and  at  last,  to  our  great  hap- 
piness, he  consented  to  receive  her  home  again.  But  first 
she  must  sign  a  paper  in  the  presence  of  myself  and  Dar- 
rell,  in  which  she  undertook,  in  many  solemn  words,  never 
to  touch  alcohol  in  any  form — wine  or  beer — except  by  the 
permission  of  her  husband.  The  day  of  her  arrival  from 
Bridgewater  we  all  dined  together;  the  girl's  beauty 
seemed  to  have  increased,  if  possible,  and  it  was  an  inex- 
pressible satisfaction  to  Darrell  and  me  to  see  our  efforts 
crowned  with  success.  Six  weeks,  or  at  most  two  months, 
had  only  passed,  when  Rose,  returning  home,  found  his 
wife  in  such  a  condition  of  drunkenness  as  only  to  leave 
her  power  to  stagger  across  the  room,  fall  at  her  husband's 
feet,  cling  about  his  knees,  and  implore  him  not  to  go  and 
fetch  me  and  Darrell,  so  that  we  might  see  what  a  "  de- 
praved wretch"  she  was.  He  rushed  from  the  house  to 
fetch  us.  There  was  an  unnatural  calm  in  Rose's  manner 
when  he  announced  the  failure  of  our  "  well-meant  efforts," 
as  he  called  them. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  to  Darrell,  in  bantering  tones, 
"  that  you  have  not  been  able  to  add  to  your  list  of  re- 
deemed ones.  As  you  were  both  witnesses  to  the  woman's 
solemn  pledge,  you  must  come  with  me  and  see  how  well 
she  has  kept  it." 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  till  we  arrived  in  Harley 
Street.  Rose  let  us  in  by  means  of  his  latch-key,  and  led 
the  way  to  the  drawing-room.  No  one  was  there.  He 
rang  the  bell. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ?" 

"  Don't  know,  sir." 

"  Wait  here,  Darrell.  I  will  go  and  look  for  her ;  she 
couldn't  go  out." 

He  left  the  room.  Too  distressed  to  talk  to  one  an- 
other, we  sat  awe-struck.  In  a  few  moments  we  heard  a 


THE  DOCTOE'S  STORY.  405 

cry  that  literally  froze  my  blood.  We  rushed  from  the 
room.  The  cry  was  repeated,  and  a  voice  added,  "  Come 
here — come  here!" 

We  descended  the  stairs,  and  met  a  frightened  footman, 
who  pointed  to  the  surgery.  We  entered,  and  found  Rose 
on  his  knees  by  the  dead  body  of  his  wife.  The  smell  of 
prussic  acid  that  seemed  to  fill  the  surgery  'told  the  fate 
of  the  miserable  girl. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"FOB     BETTER,     FOR     WORS  E." 

THE  end  of  May  found  me  at  home  and  at  work  once 
more.  My  diary  under  May  28  says : 

"  Sketched  out  composition  of  a  wedding-party,  which 
might  do,  but  fear  it  is  not  very  interesting.  In  great 
despair  about  subjects." 

This  picture  represents  a  bride  and  bridegroom  on  the 
point  of  leaving  for  the  honeymoon.  Their  brougham 
waits;  and  a  crowd  of  passers-by  watch  the  departure, 
while  from  the  doorsteps — on  which  the  bride's  family  and 
friends  are  collected — come  the  usual  showers  of  rice  and 
slippers,  and  from  a  balcony  above  the  portico  guests  take 
a  last  look  at  the  newly-married.  I  was  prompted  to  this 
subject  by  seeing  an  almost  identical  realization  of  it  in 
Cleveland  Square.  The  street  crowd,  through  an  avenue 
of  which  the  lady  and  gentleman  go  to  their  carriage,  is 
composed  of  street  boys,  the  more  inquisitive  being  kept 
back  by  a  policeman  with  an  unnecessary  display  of  force ; 
a  Jew  clothesman ;  a  servant  whose  curiosity  has  stopped 
her  on  her  way  to  post  a  letter ;  and,  last  and  best  part 
of  the  picture,  a  group  of  beggars  who  approach  from 
the  street,  the  man,  his  wife,  and  children  illustrating 
the  latter  part  of  the  title  of  the  picture,  "  For  Better, 
for  "Worse." 

After  much  search  I  discovered  a  Jew  of  a  very  marked 
type,  who  consented  to  sit  if  I  would  make  it  "  worth  his 
while."  He  was  a  person  in  very  humble  circumstances, 
but  his  time  was  of  enormous  value.  He  declined  to  di- 
vulge the  secret  of  its  value,  but  he  made  such  a  demand 
as  to  place  his  services  out  of  the  question,  unless  it  could 
be  much  modified. 

"How  many  hours  will  you  want  me?" 


"  FOE   BETTER,  FOE   WOBSE."  407 

"I  can't  tell;  that  will  depend  upon  your  sitting  partly, 
and  more  on  the  way  I  can  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  Well,  suppose  we  say  ten  shillings  an  hour;  that's  rea- 
sonable, ain't  it  ?"  said  the  Israelite. 

"  No,  I  think  it  is  unreasonable,  and  quite  out  of  the 
question,"  said  I. 

"  Got  any  old  clothes  ?" 

"  No." 

"  No  !     Vot  do  you  do  with  'em,  then  ?" 

"  Wear  them,"  I  replied. 

"Come,  now,  that  von't  do.  Those  you've  got  on  ain't 
old  ones  !" 

"  No ;  these  are  my  Sunday  ones ;  and  I  don't  want  to 
waste  any  more  of  your  valuable  time,  so  unless  you  will 
agree  to  sit  to  me  for  three  hours  for  the  ten  shillings,  I 
will  wish  you  good-morning." 

"Make  it  twelve  and  six." 

"  No." 

"  Veil,  then,  say  eleven,  and  it's  a  bargain." 

"  No,  it  isn't ;  ten  is  the  outside." 

"  And  some  old  clothes,"  said  the  man,  with  a  frightful 
smile.  "  I  can't  say  no  fairer  than  that." 

We  struck  the  bargain,  including  the  clothes ;  the  old 
man  declaring,  when  the  sittings  were  over,  that  I  was  a 
very  nice  gentleman,  and  it  had  been  a  pleasure  to  him  to 
oblige  me,  but  he  had  been  such  a  loser  by  the  transaction 
that  he  hoped  I  would  think  of  him  when  I  had  worn  my 
Sunday  suit  a  little  longer,  for  it  was  "  already  too  shabby 
for  any  gentleman  to  wear,  let  alone,"  etc.  He  called 
many  times;  but  as  I  had  paid  him  very  well  for  his  sit- 
ting, I  desired  my  servant  to  say,  in  reply  to  his  affection- 
ate inquiry  after  my  "  Sunday  suit,"  that,  like  the  eagles, 
it  "  had  renewed  its  youth,"  and  had  become  so  interest- 
ing to  me,  from  my  having  worn  it  when  painting  from 
him,  that  I  felt  I  could  never  part  with  it.  Many  years 
have  passed,  and  I  am  at  last  free  from  the  visits  of  my 
Jewish  model. 

Among  the  lookers-on  at  my  wedding-party  were. an 
Italian  boy  and  monkey.  After  acquiring  a  certain  power 
of  painting  the  human  being,  animals  ought  not  to  be  very 


408  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

difficult ;  but  then  the  animal  must  not  be  a  monkey.  Lit- 
tle children  are  maddening ;  but  commend  me  to  the  most 
terrible  of  those  in  preference  to  a  monkey.  I  suppose  it 
is  not  possible  that  the  monkey  knew  what  I  wanted,  and 
was  determined  I  should  not  get  it ;  but  his  conduct  could 
only  be  accounted  for  on  that  hypothesis.  I  desired  his 
young  master  to  hold  the  creature's  head  in  the  proper 
direction.  For  an  instant  he  succeeded ;  then  with  a  wrig- 
gle and  a  squeak  the  animal  freed  itself,  slipped  from  his 
fingers,  sprang  on  to  my  easel,  and  grinned  at  me  from  the 
top  of  it.  This  performance  was  constantly  repeated, 
varied  by  attacks  on  the  picture  itself.  I  was  thankful 
when  at  last  "  an  exposition  of  sleep  "  came  over  the  animal, 
and  I  managed  to  complete  my  work. 

In  a  picture  by  Wilkie,  in  the  National  Gallery,  called 
"  The  Parish  Beadle,"  there  is  an  admirable  portrait  of  one 
of  these  disagreeable  little  brutes.  In  his  diary,  Wilkie 
says  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  Exeter  Change  (then  a  large 
menagerie,  on  the  site  of  the  present  Exeter  Hall)  on  a 
Sunday,  that  being  the  only  day  on  which  he  could  do  his 
work  free  from  interruption.  The  artist  was  pursuing 
his  task,  when  a  much  smaller  monkey  than  his  sitter 
worked  his  way  through  the  bars  of  its  cage  and  peram- 
bulated the  room.  The  menagerie  consisted  of  a  set  of 
large  rooms,  in  which  many  animals  were  confined  in  sep- 
arate cages.  In  the  room  in  which  the  painter  was  work- 
ing, a  tiger  was  fast  asleep.  The  monkey,  with  the  curi- 
osity peculiar  to  his  species,  made  his  way  to  the  tiger 
through  the  bars  into  the  den,  which  he  investigated  to  his 
satisfaction;  but,  unfortunately,  in  retreating  he  tried  to 
make  a  short  cut  to  the  bars  over  the  body  of  the  tiger. 
The  tiger  awoke — a  scream  !  a  blow  from  a  paw  ! — and  in 
a  few  moments  nothing  of  the  monkey  remained  to  point 
the  moral  attending  the  fatal  effect  of  curiosity. 

It  was  while  painting  the  picture  "For  Better,  for 
Worse,"  that  an  incident  occurred  which  proved,  in  a  re- 
markable manner,  the  difficulty  with  which  the  amateur 
mo.del  has  to  contend.  Artists  know  how  constantly  per- 
sons unaccustomed  to  sitting,  or  rather  standing  —  in  the 
fatiguing  attitudes  required — are  attacked  by  faintiug-fits 


"FOB   BETTER,  FOE    WORSE."  409 

so  suddenly  as  to  require  a  constant  lookout  on  the  part 
of  the  painter  for  the  premonitory  symptoms  that  he 
knows  so  well — a  deadly  pallor  overspreads  the  face,  the 
lips  become  colorless,  and,  unless  a  change  of  attitude  is 
afforded  at  once,  the  model  falls  to  the  floor,  and  work  is 
over  for  the  day.  On  the  occasion  I  speak  of  a  boy  was 
standing  for  me  in  an  easy  position,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  I  was  at  work  upon  his  face,  and  saw  no  sign  of  a 
change  in  his  complexion  ;  when,  without  moving  his  hands 
from  his  trousers,  he  fell  like  one  shot.  I  have  known 
soldiers,  boxers,  and  the  like,  powerful-looking  men,  un- 
able to  endure  the  strain  of  standing  still  in  one  position, 
though  the  action  may  be  simple  and  easy  enough,  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  without  sensations  —  which  they  de- 
clare they  have  never  felt  before — incapacitating  them  for 
a  time.  In  one  of  my  friends'  studios  a  girl  fell  into  a 
stove  and  disfigured  herself  for  life. 

The  picture  "  For  Better,  for  Worse,"  together  with  an 
episode  in  the  life  of  Swift,  formed  my  contributions  to 
the  Exhibition  of  1881. 

The  mystery  attending  the  relations  existing  between 
Swift,  Stella,  and  Vanessa  will  probably  never  be  solved. 
That  he  really  married  the  former  has  been  doubted;  but 
it  is  sure  that  his  heartless  treatment  of  Vanessa  short- 
ened her  life. 

That  Hester  Vanhomrigh — otherwise  Vanessa — was 
deeply  in  love  with  Swift,  and  that  she  expected  and 
hoped  to  be  his  wife,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  That  she 
had  warrant  for  her  belief  Swift's  own  words  prove  ;  and 
when  the  rumors  of  the  marriage  of  her  lover  with  her 
rival  reached  Vanessa,  what  so  natural,  what  so  straight- 
forward, as  her  appeal  to  Stella  for  the  truth  or  false- 
hood of  the  report !  The  appeal  took  the  form  of  a  let- 
ter of  inquiry,  and  the  letter  fell  into  the  hands  of  Swift. 
Readers  of  that  great  genius's  works,  and  students  of  his 
life,  need  not  be  told  of  the  effects  of  such  a  letter  upon  a 
man  who  was  the  victim  of  passion  so  uncontrollable  as  to 
affright  beholders  of  its  results.  . 

With  the  letter  in  his  hand  Swift  galloped  from  Dub- 
lin to  Miss  Vanhomrigh's  house,  some  miles  away,  leaped 
18 


410  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

from  his  horse,  and  rushed,  unannounced,  into  her  presence ; 
then,  without  speaking  a  word,  but  with  a  look  that  froze 
her  blood,  he  threw  the  letter  on  to  the  table  and  left  her 
forever. 

The  unhappy  woman,  heart  -  stricken,  faded  from  that 
day,  and  died  soon  after. 

I  could  find  no  authority  for  the  likeness  of  Vanessa, 
but  for  Swift  the  portrait  by  Jervas  proved  all  that  I  could 
desire.  It  is  an  excellent  picture,  and  from  its  strong 
character  must  be  a  good  likeness.  The  man  was  very 
handsome,  and  as  he  sits  smiling  on  Jervas's  canvas  one 
finds  it  as  difficult  to  imagine  those  features  twisted  out 
of  shape,  and  distorted  by  passion,  as  it  is  to  conceive  a 
tranquil  summer  sea,  with  its  tiny  waves  breaking  silently 
on  the  shore,  transformed  into  a  storm-driven  ocean. 

I  found  the  subject  I  had  chosen  a  very  difficult  one. 
I  fear  it  required  a  more  powerful  pencil  than  mine  to 
portray  the  crushed  heart  and  mind  of  Vanessa  or  the 
lightning  fury  of  Swift. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

MODELS — THIEVISH. 

THERE  is  no  doubt  that  one  of  the  great  difficulties  be- 
setting a  painter's  life  is  the  procuring  of  models  suitable 
to  so  much  variety  of  character  as  certain  subjects  require 
for  their  realization.  Scarcely  a  day  —  certainly  never  a 
week — passes  without  applicants  for  sittings  making  their 
appearance  in  artists'  studios,  of  all  ages,  from  the  baby  in 
arms  to  the  man  of  eighty.  Still,  the  exact  type  wanted 
may  fail  to  present  itself;  in  that  case  the  streets  or 
friends'  houses  must  be  searched,  and  often  in  vain.  Con- 
sidering that  all  who  apply  to  us  are  perfect  strangers,  and 
that  we  are  often  obliged  to  leave  them  alone  in  our  rooms, 
it  is  surprising  and  creditable  to  the  model  profession  gen- 
erally that  so  few  instances  of  theft  ever  occur. 

I  was  once  very  nearly  being  a  victim  at  the  hands  of  a 
small  boy,  whom  I  had  picked  up  in  the  street  to  serve  as 
model  for  a  crossing-sweeper.  The  young  gentleman  was, 
in  fact,  in  the  practice  of  that  profession  when  I  addressed 
him,  and  easily  persuaded  him  to  come  in  his  rags  and 
with  his  broom  to  my  rooms.  I  had  taken  a  foolish  fancy 
to  paint  a  small  picture  of  a  lady  at  a  crossing,  waiting 
till  her  passage  might  be  made  safely,  and  paying  no  at- 
tention to  a  crossing-  sweeper,  who  was  to  be  represented 
in  the  usual  begging  attitude.  The  figure  of  the  lady  in 
the  picture  was  in  a  fair  way  towards  finish  before  I  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  the  boy  I  wanted.  He  sat  two  or  three 
times  fairly  well,  and  I  appointed  him  to  come  for  a  final 
sitting.  His  hair  was  cut  very  short;  his  face,  though  not 
good-looking,  was  full  of  character,  and  I  succeeded  pretty 
well  in  getting  a  good  likeness  of  him.  In  those  days  it 
was  my  custom  (long  discontinued)  to  dine  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  and  at  the  same  time  to  send  the  models  their 


412  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

luncheon.  Before  I  left  the  studio  for  my  dinner  I  had 
occasion  to  wind  up  my  watch;  I  performed  the  operation, 
and  placed  a  short  gold  chain  and  key  used  for  the  pur- 
pose upon  the  chimney-piece.  On  my  return  from  dinner 
I  found  my  young  model  fast  asleep.  The  day  was  warm, 
the  luncheon  was  plentiful,  the  boy  was  tired,  and  I  let 
him  sleep  on.  After  a  while  we  went  on  with  our  work, 
finished  it  successfully,  and  the  time  had  arrived  to  pay 
the  model  and  despatch  him.  I  had  forgotten  the  chain 
and  key  till  that  moment.  I  looked  for  it  in  the  place  on 
the  chimney-piece — it  was  gone  !  I  knew  no  one  had  been 
into  the  room  but  the  servant,  for  whom  I  rang ;  and  to  my 
inquiry  after  my  property  I  received  the  reply  I  expected 
— she  had  seen  nothing  of  it. 

"  Did  you  see  anything  of  my  chain  and  key  ?"  said  I 
to  the  boy. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Yes  you  did,  for  I  saw  you  looking  at  me  when  I  was 
winding  up  my  watch." 

"  I  never  see  no  chain." 

"  Now,  look  here,  my  boy  :  no  one  has  been  into  the 
room;  the  chain  couldn't  walk  away,  and  you  must  have  it." 

"  Me,  sir!     S'help  me,  if  it  was  the  last  word — 

"Hold  your  tongue,  and  produce  the  chain,  or  I  will 
send  for  a  policeman  and  give  you  in  charge." 

"  I  don't  care  for  no  policeman,  and  I  don't  know  nothing 
about  no  chain." 

"  We  shall  soon  see  about  that,"  said  I,  as  I  directed  my 
servant  to  fetch  a  policeman,  at  the  same  time  giving  the 
girl  a  sign  that  told  her  not  to  take  my  order  literally. 

I  looked  at  the  boy  as  he  sat  on  a  high  chair,  his  broom 
between  his  legs,  which  he  dangled  about  in  a  careless,  in- 
dependent manner.  Presently  he  began  to  cry. 

"  Come  here,  sir  !"  said  I,  and  he  shuffled  towards  me. 
"  Now,  where  are  your  pockets  ?" 

"Ain't  got  no  pockets." 

I  felt  about  his  jacket,  and  certainly  there  was  no  pocket, 
nor  any  other  receptacle  for  stolen  property;  but  in  sub- 
mitting the  ragged  trousers  to  a  closer  scrutiny  I  came 
upon  something  harder  than  rag,  and  after  a  little  perse- 


MODELS — THIEVISH.  413 

verance  I  extracted  one  of  my  cigars  from  the  lining  of 
the  young  gentleman's  inexpressibles.  Tears  and  sobs  in- 
creased very  much. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  produce  the  chain,  or  as  sure  as  you 
are  born  I  will  lock  you  up." 

The  weeping  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun ;  the 
boy  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  then, 
applying  his  fingers  with  a  dexterous  twist  to  the  back  of 
his  neck,  he  drew  out  my  chain  and  key  from  the  region 
of  the  spinal  column — rather  low  down  apparently,  for  he 
was  obliged  to  throw  out  his  elbow  to  a  height  that  nothing 
but  long  practice  could  have  enabled  him  to  accomplish 
— and  my  property  was  restored  to  me. 

"  I  know  where  you  live,"  said  I,  "and  I  shall  make  a 
point  of  telling  your  father  of  this  ;  and  what  do  you 
think  he  will  say  to  you  ?" 

"  He'll  whack  me." 

From  information  afterwards  received,  I  believe  a 
"whacking"  would  certainly  have  been  bestowed,  but  it 
would  have  been  administered  in  consequence  of  the  young 
gentleman's  failure  in  his  attempt  to  rob  me.  After  a 
severe  lecture  I  dismissed  my  thievish  model.  On  leaving 
home  for  my  afternoon's  walk,  within  a  few  paces  of  my 
front  door  I  met  a  policeman. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  man  ;  "  might  you  be 
the  landlord  of  this  house  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  sir,  I  see  a  boy  come  out  of  your  back  gate, 
which  I  know  something  about.  What  might  he  be  doing 
of  on  your  premises  ?" 

I  explained  the  reason  of  the  boy's  appearance. 

"Ah,"  said  the  policeman,  " perhaps  you  don't  know  as 
that  boy  is  one  of  the  worst  thieves  in  London ;  he's  only 
just  out  of  prison.  Didn't  you  notice  his  'air,  with  the 
prison-cut  quite  fresh  ?  You'll  be  having  your  house 
robbed,  sir.  That  boy's  father  is  a  thief,  so's  his  mother, 
and  his  sister.  There  is  always  one  or  other  of  'em  in 
prison." 

After  this  warning  I  need  scarcely  add  that  I  saw  no 
more  of  mv  thievish  model. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"OLD     MASTER  S." 

A  PORTION  of  the  year  in  which  the  pictures  of  "  Swift, 
etc.,"  were  produced  was  spent  in  the  service  of  the  Win- 
ter Exhibition  of  Old  Masters.  My  duties  took  me  into 
strange  places,  and  among  strange,  though  often  agree- 
able, people,  all  more  or  less  curiously  ignorant  of  the  value 
of  the  treasures  in  their  keeping,  and  sometimes  fancying 
whole  housefuls  of  rubbish  gems  of  art.  One  of  my  first 
visits  was  paid  to  a  huge  mansion  in  the  north.  The 
rooms  were  crowded  with  pictures  of  all  shapes  and  sizes, 
heirlooms,  etc.  A  single  glance  was  sufficient;  daub  after 
daub  filled  my  afflicted  vision,  while  I  waited  for  my 
cicerone,  who  presently  appeared,  catalogue  in  hand,  in  the 
shape  of  one  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  family. 

"  May  I  ask  who  that  picture  is  painted  by  ?"  said  I, 
pointing  to  a  Wardour  Street  example. 

"  That  is  by  Titian—'  A  Holy  Family.'  " 

"Ah!  and  this  one?" 

"  That "  (ref  ering  to  catalogue)  "  is  by — by — Domy — 
Dom — my  sister  writes  so  badly  I  can't  quite  make  out." 

"  Oh,  Domenichino,"  said  I.  "  Is  it  ? — very  interesting 
— I  never  saw  a  picture  of  foxhounds  by  that  painter 
before." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  cicerone ;  "  '  Pack  of  hounds,  fox  break- 
ing cover.' " 

"  Dear  me,"  I  said,  "  the  people  in  those  days  dressed 
pretty  much  as  they  do  now — red  coats,  top-boots,  and 
everything." 

"  So  they  did,"  rejoined  the  young  lady;  "  and  Domy — 
what  do  you  call  him,  lived  many  years  ago,  didn't  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  about  three  hundred  or  thereabouts;  but  perhaps 
he  was  a  prophet  as  well  as  a  painter,  and  could  foresee 


"OLD  MASTERS."  415 

the  kind  of  dress  that  would  be  worn  in  England  a  few 
centuries  after  his  death." 

I  went  steadily  through  this  remarkable  gathering 
without  finding  a  single  picture  above  contempt. 

"  Now,"  said  my  young  friend,  "  you  must  come  into 
the  billiard-room;  it  is  quite  full  of  portraits  of  our  an- 
cestors, by  Vandyke,  but  before  you  see  them  I  am  to 
tell  you  that  we  cannot  let  them  go  to  London — any  other 
picture  you  can  have." 

To  my  surprise  I  found  the  Vandykes  were  very  fair 
specimens  of  Lely — one  or  two  excellent. 

"  These  are  by  Vandyke,  are  they  ?"  said  I. 

"  Yes.  They  have  been  here  ever  since  they  were  painted. 
Mamma  has  all  the  receipts  from  Vandyke  for  the  differ- 
ent sums  paid  for  the  pictures." 

"My  duty,"  said  I,  "  Is  simply  to  report  upon  the  works 
I  see,  to  the  Council  of  the  Royal  Academy;  you  will  no 
doubt  hear  from  them  on  the  subject." 

"  Oh,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  one  of  our  greatest  pictures, 
always  so  much  admired;  it  is  by  Gainsborough,  on  the 
staircase.  You  won't  mind  taking  the  trouble  to  mount 
the  stairs  ?" 

I  followed  my  guide  up  several  flights  of  stairs,  and  at 
length  found  myself  opposite  a  whole-length  life-sized 
portrait  of  a  man  in  armor,  as  worn  during  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth — a  vile  picture. 

"  Are  you  sure  this  is  by  Gainsborough  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Perfectly,  and  it  is  thought  by  good  judges  "(emphasis 
on  good  judges)  "  to  be  a  very  fine  Gainsborough." 

"  Then  that  great  artist,"  said  I,  "  has  adopted  a  method 
curiously  in  opposition  to  Domenichino,  for  he  has  gone 
back  a  couple  of  centuries  to  paint  some  one  he  couldn't 
possibly  have  seen." 

My  cicerone  seemed  bewildered.  I  thanked  her  for  her 
attention,  and  wished  her  good-day.  My  reader  may 
doubt  the  truth  of  the  above,  but  the  facts  occurred  just 
as  I  have  told  them. 

The  pictures  of  Reynolds  are  so  much  desired  for  the 
Winter  Exhibition  that  neither  trouble  nor  expense  are 
spared  in  searching  for  them  ;  so  hearing  of  one,  described 


416  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

to  me  as  of  unusual  splendor,  I  made  a  journey  into  Wales 
with  the  solitary  Reynolds  for  its  object.  The  owner  was 
from  home,  but  the  lady  of  the  house  received  me  very 
courteously,  and,  though  unable  to  promise  to  lend  the 
picture  to  the  Academy,  she  allowed  me  to  see  it. 

"  My  husband's  great-grandmother,  by  Sir  J.  Reynolds, 
considered  by  connoisseurs  as  his  finest  work." 

"  It  is  a  very  fine  picture  indeed,"  said  I ;  "  but  it  was 
not  painted  by  Reynolds." 

"  Not  painted  by — why,  I  can  show  you  Sir  Joshua's 
receipt  for  his  fee  !" 

I  had  a  difficult  game  to  play.  I  wanted  the  picture 
very  much,  for  it  was  a  very  beautiful  Romney,  so  I  fear 
I  rather  played  the  hypocrite,  and  pretended  to  doubt  my 
own  judgment;  finally  the  picture  was  sent  to  Burling- 
ton House  accompanied  by  a  letter  from  the  owner,  which 
informed  the  council  that,  though  doubt  had  been  thrown 
upon  the  picture  by  Mr.  Frith,  who  had  told  Lady  Blank 
that  the  painter  of  the  work  was  not  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
he,  the  proprietor,  possessed  such  convincing  evidence  to 
the  contrary,  that  unless  the  picture  could  be  described  in 
the  catalogue  as  by  Reynolds,  he  would  be  obliged  to  the 
council  if  they  would  send  it  back  immediately.  We 
were  greatly  troubled  ;  it  was  impossible  to  stultify  our- 
selves by  putting  the  name  of  Reynolds  to  a  palpable 
Romney,  and  we  were  very  anxious  to  exhibit  the  picture. 
A  letter  was  therefore  written  by  the  secretary  informing 
the  owner  of  the  Sir  Joshua  (by  order  of  council)  that  his 
Reynolds  was  a  Romney,  and  must  be  exhibited  as  such, 
or  not  at  all.  Like  a  sensible  man  Lord  Blank  gave  way, 
and  his  great-grandmother,  a  very  lovely  young  creature, 
proved  one  of  the  most  attractive  pictures  in  the  Winter 
Exhibition  of  1881. 

As  I  find  I  visited  thirty-eight  different  collections  of  old 
masters,  and  named  for  selection  over  three  hundred  pict- 
ures, an  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  almost  inexhaustible 
wealth  of  ancient  art  in  this  country.  I  forget  the  name 
of  the  owner  of  the  house  in  which  I  found  two  very  fine 
half-length  portraits  by  Romney,  representing  a  lady  and 
gentleman — husband  and  wife,  I  think — the  lady  very 


"OLD  MASTERS."  417 

charming,  the  gentleman  of  a  strongly -marked  indi- 
viduality, his  expression  conveying  the  idea  of  a  some- 
what irascible  temper.  On  inquiry,  I  was  told  that  the 
face  was  the  "  index  of  the  mind,"  the  owner  of  it  being 
in  the  habit  of  giving  way  to  paroxysms  of  fury  that  made 
him  a  terror  to  all  offenders,  his  servants  especially.  After 
the  death  of  his  wife  the  fits  of  passion  became  more  fre- 
quent. This  gentleman  had  a  large  acquaintance,  and 
was  a  constant  diner-out.  Living  in  the  country,  and  his 
friends'  houses  lying  at  varying  distances  from  his  own, 
his  carriage  was  in  frequent  requisition,  the  rule  being  for 
the  coachman  to  drive  his  master  home,  when  that  gentle- 
man, opening  the  carriage  door,  would  let  himself  into  his 
house.  On  one  boisterous  night  the  customary  programme 
was  enacted;  and  the  coachman,  after  pausing  at  the  door 
as  usual,  drove  to  the  stables,  housed  the  carriage,  and  after- 
wards stabled  the  horses.  He  then  went  to  his  supper, 
and  was  surprised  by  an  inquiry  by  a  footman  after  his 
master. 

"Master!"  said  the  coachman  ;  "why,  he  let  himself  in 
as  usual  half  an  hour  ago,  and  he  is  in  bed  and  asleep  by 
this  time." 

"No,  that  he  can't  be,"  said  the  footman.  " He  always 
rings  for  me,  and  I've  heard  nothing  of  him.  Anyway, 
I'll  go  and  see." 

The  man  returned  presently. 

His  master  couldn't  be  in  the  house.  He  was  not  to  be 
found  anywhere. 

The  coachman  stared  at  his  fellow-servant  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  hastily  rose  from  the  supper-table,  beckoning 
the  footman  to  follow — warning  him  to  make  no  noise. 
The  two  went  stealthily  together  to  the  coach-house,  where 
they  found  their  master  sound  asleep  in  his  carriage. 
"  Lend  a  hand  with  the  harness,"  said  the  coachman. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  horses  were  harnessed  and  at- 
tached to  the  carriage,  and  the  irritable  passenger,  still 
asleep,  was  driven  to  his  house-door.     Here  it  was  found 
necessary  to  wake  him,  and  with  an  exclamation,  "Why, 
bless  my  soul,  I  must  have  been  asleep  !"  he  entered  his 
house,  never  suspecting,  or  to  the  end  of  his  life   ever 
18* 


418  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

knowing,  that  he  had  spent  part  of  the  night  in  his  own 
coach-house. 

Numberless  examples  of  the  ignorance  of  collectors  or 
inheritors  of  pictures  might  be  given,  but  I  will  add  only 
one  more  instance  of  strange  credulity,  for  the  truth  of 
which  my  colleague  in  the  search  for  old  pictures,  Mr. 
Horsley,  R.A.,  is  responsible.  In  one  of  his  wanderings 
in  the  north  of  England  my  friend  was  told  that  he  must 
not  leave  that  part  of  the  country  without  seeing  a  picture 
which  had  just  arrived  from  abroad — no  less  than  a  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci,  valued  at  three  thousand  guineas.  The 
picture  had  been  consigned  to  a  distant  relative  of  the 
owner,  with  a  view  to  its  sale  at  Christie  &  Hanson's  in 
the  spring.  Though  Mr.  Horsley  had  long  journeys  and 
hard  work  on  his  hands,  the  temptation  to  secure,  if  possi- 
ble, so  rare  a  treasure  as  a  fine  work  by  one  of  the  great- 
est ornaments  of  the  Italian  school  was  too  great  to  be 
resisted.  The  picture  also  appeared  with  such  strong  evi- 
dences of  authenticity  as  to  make  its  genuineness  almost 
unquestionable.  The  family  for  which  the  great  artist 
painted  the  picture  had  transmitted  it  from  father  to  son 
down  to  the  representative  now  living,  etc. 

It  is  the  rule  with  those  who  have  the  selection  of  the 
Winter  Exhibition  pictures  to  refrain  from  giving  their 
personal  opinion  of  works  offered.  The  owners  are  al- 
ways told  that  the  decision  rests  with  a  committee  formed 
expressly  to  decide — after  reports  from  the  selectors — as 
to  what  shall  or  shall  not  be  exhibited.  But  when  candid 
opinion  is  asked,  it  is  often  as  candidly  given.  In  the 
case  of  the  Leonardo,  the  artist  was  so  pressed  by  the  con- 
signee (who  had  no  interest  in  the  picture,  and  consider- 
able doubt  of  its  authenticity)  to  give  his  real  opinion  of 
its  commercial  value,  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to  appraise 
it  at  five  pounds,  provided  always  the  picture  were  sold  in 
its  frame;  the  latter,  a  good  old  carved  one,  being  worth 
about  that  sum. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  temporary  custodian,  "  it  will 
be  of  no  use  sending  the  picture  to  London  for  sale." 

"Not  unless  you  will  take  five  pounds  for  it,"  said 
Horsley. 


"OLD  MASTERS."  419 

"  But  how  can  this  be  ascertained  so  as  to  convince  the 
owner  ?" 

"  Well,"  replied  the  artist,  "  I  will  give  you  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  Messrs.  Christie.  I  will  write  it  now,  here, 
if  you  like.  You  shall  see  it,  and  I  will  give  those  gentle- 
men no  clew  to  ray  own  opinion.  Send  the  picture  to 
King  Street.  Ask  what  it  will  be  likely  to  fetch  under 
the  hammer  there,  and  you  will  most  likely  find  that  ray 
estimate  of  the  value  is  pretty  nearly  correct." 

The  advice  was  taken.  The  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was 
sent  to  Christie  &  Manson,  with  the  inquiry  proposed 
by  Mr.  Horsley.  The  eminent  firm  regretted  to  say  that 
there  would  be  no  chance  of  the  picture  selling  for  more 
than  the  value  of  the  frame,  which  might  reach  five 
pounds.  It  is  curious  that  without  any  communication 
with  the  artist  the  auctioneers  should  have  named  the 
precise  sum  fixed  by  him. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A   SUCCESSFUL    DEALER. 

Louis  VICTOR  FLATOW,  picture-dealer,  was  the  son  of  a 
poor  Austrian  Jew,  so  poor  as  to  be  unable  to  give  his  son 
education  enough  to  enable  him  to  read  or  write.  In  lieu 
of  teaching,  when  the  son  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  eleven 
the  father  placed  in  his  hands  some  sheaves  of  lead-pencils 
and  told  him  to  be  off  and  get  his  own  living  ;  "  and  from 
that  time  till  now,"  said  Mr.  Flatow,  "and  I'm  between 
forty  and  fifty — though  I  don't  look  it — I  have  got  my 
own  living."  How  that  was  managed  for  some  years 
Louis  Victor  declined  to  say,  beyond  acknowledging  that 
the  lead -pencil  scheme  was  very  soon  exchanged  for  some 
other,  by  which  he  managed  to  exist,  till  fate  or  chance 
threw  in  his  way  a  Belgian  who  dealt  in  "  old  masters." 
The  "  old-master  pattern,"  as  Flatow  called  it,  succeeded 
in  filling  the  pockets  of  his  employer  without  having  much 
effect  upon  his  own ;  and  whether  because  he  was  shocked 
by  the  tricks  of  that  trade,  or  disappointed  with  their  re- 
sults as  regarded  his  own  future,  is  not  known,  but  after 
some  experience  of  the  business  he  left  his  employer  and 
started  on  his  own  account. 

I  forget  the  name  of  the  dealer  in  "old  masters,"  but 
his  pupil  said  he  was  one  of  those  who  acknowledged  that 
honesty  is  the  best  policy,  but  "  thanked  God  they  could 
do  without  it."  And  if  the  account  of  the  production  of 
these  ancient  pictures,  as  practised  by  the  Belgian,  were 
true,  honesty  was  certainly  put  on  one  side. 

"  There  was  a  lot  of  young  artists — clever  chaps,  some 
of  'em — copying  away  like  fury  in  the  public  galleries  ; 
and  when  the  copies,  were  done  he  smoked  and  cracked 
'em  till  you  would  never  believe  they  were  less  than  two 
hundred  years  old." 


A   SUCCESSFUL   DEALER.  421 

"  And  what  is  the  next  step  ?"  said  I. 

"  Why,  they  were  sold  as  originals,  of  course,  and  those 
who  bought  them  believed  that  they  possessed  the  origi- 
nals, and  the  Louvre  or  the  Dresden  Gallery  the  copies." 

"  That  was  very  abominable,"  said  I. 

"  Of  course  it  was,  and  I  got  out  of  it  as  soon  as  I  could," 
was  the  reply. 

According  to  Mr.  Flatow,  though  the  roguish  part  of 
the  "  old-master  "  business  was  abandoned  by  him,  he  con- 
tinued to  deal  in  the  "  real  thing "  till  he  had  formed  a 
tolerably  large  collection  of  Titians  and  Raphaels ;  and  not 
being  successful  abroad,  he  went  to  Edinburgh,  and  intro- 
duced his  exhibition  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  to  the 
Scottish  public.  Whether  the  taste  of  the  canny  Scots 
was  not  sufficiently  advanced  for  the  appreciation  of  the 
merits  of  Raphael,  or  so  much  cultivated  as  to  cause 
doubt  of  the  originality  of  the  Flatow  collection,  is  not 
known  ;  but  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  show  failed  to  at- 
tract. And,  as  the  expenses  were  great,  great  was  the 
failure  ;  and  the  spirited  collector  left  Edinburgh  and  the 
"  old  masters  "  behind  him.  "  Never,  sir,  to  go  among 
such  a  scrubby  lot  as  the  Scotch  again  ;  with  a  final  adoo 
to  the  old-master  pattern." 

The  next  step  in  the  career  of  my  illustrious  friend  has 
only  to  be  accounted  for  on  the  hypothesis  of  some  por- 
tion of  his  life,  between  the  lead-pencil  and  the  "  old-mas- 
ter "  period,  being  devoted  to  the  study  ?.nd  practice  of 
chiropodism  ;  for  his  next  appearance  is  in  Spring  Street, 
London,  where  the  passer-by  might  have  seen  a  golden 
foot  disfigured  by  gigantic  corns,  and  beneath  it,  on  a 
brass  plate,  the  words,  "L.  V.  Flatow,  Chiropodist." 

Mr.  Flatow  was  a  very  remarkable  man,  and  whatever 
he  undertook  to  do  was  done  with  an  energy  and  devoted- 
ness  common  to  great  characters ;  but  greatness  cannot 
always  make  the  opportunity  necessary  for  its  display, 
and  the  comparative  failure  of  the  corn-cutting  proved 
that  the  hour  for  the  glory  of  my  friend  had  not  yet 
struck.  To  beguile  the  weary  time  that  was  so  ready  to 
be  devoted  to  the  relief  of  his  fellow-creatures,  Mr.  Flatow 
indulged  himself  with  a  game  of  billiards.  It  goes  with- 


422  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

out  saying  that  the  game  as  played  by  the  corn-cutter 
was  splendid,  so  perfect,  indeed,  that  no  frequenter  of  the 
rooms  of  my  friend  Mr.  Beckingham  could  be  induced, 
even  for  the  smallest  stake,  to  enter  the  lists  against 
him. 

Mr.  Beckingham  is,  or  was,  the  proprietor  of  the  Adelphi 
Cigar  Stores  in  the  Strand;  the  billiard-rooms  are  above 
the  shop,  and,  after  descending  from  the  rooms  one  day, 
Mr.  Flatow  produced  some  cards,  and  thus  addressed  the 
amiable  tobacconist: 

"I  see,  sir,  that  you  have  a  great  many  visitors  to  your 
establishment ;  sure,  some  of  'em — many  of  'em,  I  hope — 
must  be  troubled  with  corns.  Now  you  would  oblige  me 
very  much- — you  would,  in  fact,  be  of  great  service  to  me 
— if  you  would  distribute  some  of  my  cards  ;  and  if  you 
happen  to  have  a  corn  about  you,  I  shall  be  happy  to 
prove  to  you,  free  gratis  for  nothing,  that  I  am  well  up  in 
the  business." 

"  I  will  try  to  serve  you  with  much  pleasure,"  said  Mr. 
Beckingham ;  "  and  you  can  serve  me,  I  assure  you,  for  I 
am  at  this  moment  dreadfully  troubled  with  a  most  per- 
sistent corn." 

Patient  and  operator  retired  into  a  little  room  at  the 
back  of  the  shop  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  and  with  admira- 
ble skill,  a  painless  operation  was  performed.  I  am  sure, 
from  what  I  know  of  Mr.  Beckingham's  amiable  character, 
that  he  distributed  many  cards,  adding  strong  commenda- 
tion of  Mr.  Flatow's  ability ;  but  when  destiny  has  pre- 
scribed a  fate,  corn-cutting  cannot  break  the  web,  and  the 
moment  was  near  that  was  to  signalize  the  commence- 
ment of  the  career  of  one  of  the  most  successful  dealers  in 
modern  art  that  this  country  has  seen. 

Mr.  Beckingham  was  well  acquainted  with  an  artist  who, 
in  his  youth,  had  painted  many  pictures  of  great  merit; 
but  on  arriving  at  mature  age  the  public  deserted  him, 
and  the  difficulty  of  finding  purchasers  for  his  works  be- 
came very  great.  Beckingham  had  bought  some  of  his 
pictures,  and  had  been  the  means  of  selling  others  ;  and 
on  one  occasion,  when  Flatow  happened  to  be  by,  the  ar- 
tist produced  two  small  pictures,  for  which  he  wanted  ten 


A    SUCCESSFUL    DEALER.  423 

pounds  apiece.  Flatow  examined  them,  and  said  be  flat- 
tered himself  he  knew  something  of  the  picture  business  ; 
and  if  he  might  be  trusted  with  the  pictures  he  would 
either  bring  them,  or  the  money  for  them,  to  Beckingham 
the  next  night.  He  was  trusted,  and  he  sold  the  pictures 
and  received  his  commission  in  the  ordinary  way.  Intro- 
ductions to  certain  artists  followed,  and  by  some  means  or 
other  Mr.  Flatow  obtained  the  command  of  a  sufficient 
sum  of  money  to  enable  him  to  "  deal,"  though  not  at  first 
very  extensively. 

I  think  it  was  when  I  was  putting  the  last  touches  to 
the  "  Derby  Day  "  that  I  first  heard  the  name  of  Flatow 
from  a  friend  of  mine,  who  described  him  as  a  knowing 
Jewish  picture-dealer,  not  beautiful  to  look  at,  but  liberal 
and  straightforward  in  all  his  engagements,  and  very  anx- 
ious for  an  introduction  to  me.  I  was  curious  to  see  the 
man,  and  a  day  was  named  for  his  visit.  I  did  not  quite 
like  his  manner  of  approaching  me  ;  it  was  too  deferential, 
too  much  as  if  I  should  be  conferring  an  honor  of  which 
no  human  being  could  be  worthy,  if  I  would  only  paint  a 
large  picture  for  him,  for  which  he  was  prepared  to  pay 
my  price  ;  and  prepared  also  to  devote  superhuman  energy 
to  make  an  engraving  from  it  successful.  And  as  to  the 
exhibition  of  it  throughout  the  country,  he  would  "  per- 
form with  it  himself." 

A  single  glance  at  Mr.  Flatow  was  enough  to  prove  that 
a  very  energetic  and  astute  individual  stood  before  you — 
the  Israelite  strongly  in  evidence,  and  by  no  means  a  fa- 
vorable type  of  that  great  race.  That  undisguisable  feat- 
ure, the  mouth,  was  mercifully  covered  by  a  beard,  and 
if  it  were  at  all  in  accord  with  the  upper  part  of  the  face, 
the  beard  became  a  valuable  cloak.  I  am  always  of  opin- 
ion that  the  face  is  a  sure  index  of  character,  but  there 
are  exceptions  to  every  rule ;  and  so  far  as  my  own  deal- 
ings with  Mr.  Flatow  were  concerned  I  had  every  reason 
to  be  satisfied  with  his  conduct.  My  first  transaction 
with  him  was  for  my  picture  of  "  Claude  Duval,"  followed 
by  the  "  Railway  Station,"  a  work  on  the  lines  of  the 
"  Derby  Day,"  and  other  modern-life  subjects  ;  and  with 
the  "Railway  Station  "  came  a  signal  success,  greatly  ow- 


424  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   KEMINISCENCES. 

ing,  I  am  sure,  to  the  way  in  which  Flatow  "  performed 
with  it  himself." 

Five-and-twenty  years  ago  there  were  no  exhibitions  of 
pictures  in  London  except  at  the  galleries  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  British  Artists  (Suffolk  Street),  and  at  the 
rooms  of  the  Society  of  Painters  in  Water  Colors.  The 
separate  exhibition  of  a  picture  was  quite  a  novelty,  and 
the  "  Railway  Station,"  deservedly  or  not,  attracted  large 
crowds.  It  was  then  quite  "  alone  in  its  glory,"  in  a  kind 
of  dark  gallery  near  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  the  picture 
being  placed  in  the  inner  gallery ;  and  from  the  outer 
room  Mr.  Flatow  scanned  his  visitors,  fixing  with  great 
acuteness  on  those  whose  appearance  indicated  the  weak- 
ness of  the  victim,  and  proceeding  at  once  to  spread  a 
snare,  which  usually  caught  a  subscriber  to  the  engraving. 
Every  one  knows  the  nuisance  of  the  picture  tout,  whose 
persevering  appeals  for  your  name  to  be  added  to  the  al- 
ready "long  list  of  distinguished  personages"  who  have 
subscribed,  embitters  your  probably  short  time  for  exam- 
ining a  picture  ;  and  though  I  was  often  amused  \>y  the 
indomitable  perseverance  of  my  entrepreneur,  it  was  my 
fate  sometimes  to  hear  uncomplimentary  remarks  on  my 
picture  and  myself.  On  one  occasion  I  remember  hearing 
Mr.  Flatow  make  a  last  appeal  to  a  gentleman,  whom  he 
had  been  pestering  for  five  minutes,  in  the  following  words  : 

"I  feel  sure  that  Mr.  Frith  would  feel  particularly 
proud  to  see  your  name,  sir,  in  the  list  of  subscribers  to 
the  fine  engraving  we  are  about  to  publish  of  this  great 
work." 

"  From  what  I  hear  of  Mr.  Frith,"  said  the  gentleman, 
"  he  is  conceited  enough  without  any  help  from  my  name 
to  make  him  more  conceited  than  he  is." 

On  another  occasion  a  very  old  man  tried  to  escape  by 
saying,  in  reply  to  Flatow's  assurance  that  the  engraver 
would  work  with  such  extreme  care  that  at  least  three 
years  would  be  spent  on  the  print : 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I  shall  be  dead 
before  the  engraving' is  done." 

"Well,  sir,  then  think  what  a  blessing  such  a  work 
would  be  to  your  children  !" 


A   SUCCESSFUL   DEALER.  425 

"  But  I  haven't  got  any,"  replied  the  old  man,  and  once 
more  Mr.  Flatow  was  defeated. 

Another  time,  after  he  had  expatiated  in  glowing  terms 
on  the  varied  beauties  of  the  picture,  the  intended  victim 
replied : 

"  Indeed,  ah  !  I  can't  agree  with  what  you  say.  You 
don't  know  me,  do  you  ?  I  thought  not.  Well,  I  am  an 
artist  myself,  and  if  I  couldn't  paint  a  better  picture  than 
that  I  would  go  home  and  hang  myself." 

One  of  Mr.  Flatow's  favorite  figures  of  speech  was, 
"  Lord  bless  you  !  there  ain't  a  dealer  in  London  that 
knows  how  to  manipulate  a  customer ;  you  must  walk 
round  'em  as  a  cooper  walks  round  a  tub." 

I  suppose  no  picture  exists  that  has  escaped  hostile  crit- 
icism. Certainly  the  "  Railway  Station  "  received  an  abun- 
dant share ;  and  I  remember  showing  my  employer  rather 
a  severe  dose  of  it  in  a  weekly  paper.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  I  became  certain  that  my  friend  could  not  read.  I 
gave  him  the  periodical,  and  pointed  out  the  column  of 
abuse,  and  by  his  expression  I  saw  the  page  was  sealed  to 
him.  He  gave  the  paper  back  to  me  and  said,  "  Who 
cares  what  such  a  d — d  fool  as  that  says !"  He  could 
write  his  name  in  curious  hieroglyphics,  and  he  could  read 
simple  words  in  large  capitals ;  and  I  have  often  been 
amused  by  the  way  he  paraded  his  learning  as  he  walked 
along  the  streets. 

"Ah,  large  place  that  infirmary,  I  see  !" 

"  What's  that  ?    Oh,  Hospital  for  Incurables  !"  I  added. 

"  They  haven't  let  that  house  yet,  I  see.  Suppose  the 
neighborhood's  going  down." 

I  never  had  a  doubt  that  Flatow — proving,  as  he  did,  a 
very  remarkable  person  without  having  had  the  advantage 
of  education — would  have  provided  for  himself  some  con- 
spicuous position  in  the  world,  and  have  filled  it  well,  un- 
der happier  circumstances.  He  could  not  read,  but  many 
books  had  been  read  to  him  by  a  devoted  wife ;  and  with 
the  whole  of  Dickens'  works  he  was  familiar,  their  peru- 
sal pi-oducing  profound  admiration  of  the  author,  and  a 
burning  desire  for  his  acquaintance.  He  was  very  inti- 
mate with  a  young  artist,  then  and  now  eminent,  who  at 


426  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

that  time  was  illustrating  one  of  Dickens'  books,  and  was 
a  near  friend  of  the  great  author.  Dickens  and  the  young 
painter  were  on  the  eve  of  a  trip  to  Paris,  and  the  artist 
took  advantage  of  this  arrangement  to  endeavor  to  carry 
out  Flatow's  cherished  desire.  Said  he,  "  Dickens  and  I 
will  be  at  Meurice's  Hotel  at  a  certain  time.  Go  over  to 
Paris,  put  up  at  Meurice's,  and  I  will  introduce  you." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  Flatow  returned,  and  called 
on  me. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "how  do  you  like  Dickens?" 

"Like  Dickens?"  said  Flatow,  with  affected  surprise. 
"  What  is  thei'e  to  like  about  him  ?  I  ain't  going  to  bow 
down  to  him — a  stuck-up  humbug !  He  thinks  a  lot  of 
himself  and  his  cleverness  because  he  wrote  'Pickwick,' 
and  such  like.  Why,  he  couldn't  help  writing  'em.  He 
deserves  no  credit  for  that.  He  a  clever  man !  Let  him 
just  go  and  sell  a  lot  of  pictures  to  a  man  that  don't  want 
'em,  as  I  have  done  lots  of  times  ;  that's  what  I  call  being 
a  clever  man." 

This  was  strange,  but  the  interpretation  thereof  sim- 
ple, when  it  was  discovered  that  the  good-natured  young 
painter  failed  in  persuading  Dickens  to  be  introduced  to 
a  gentleman  whose  appearance  and  table-d^hote  manners 
were  far  from  conciliatory.  To  those  who  could  endure 
a  certain  amount  of  rough  vulgarity,  Flatow  was  a  very 
amusing  person.  He  was  a  good  mimic,  and  he  managed 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  people  greatly  his  superiors. 
Fechter  was  a  great  friend  of  his,  and  when  some  one 
applied  to  that  actor's  representation  of  Hamlet — which 
varied  altogether  from  the  recognized  reading  of  the 
character — the  well-known  remark  of  the  Russian  on  the 
unfortunate  light  -  cavalry  charge  in  the  Crimea,  "  C^est 
magnifique,  mais  ce  n'est pas  la  guerre"  " I  believe  you, 
sir,"  said  Flatow,  "  it  is  just  magnificent." 

On  shaking  hands  with  his  gloves  on  he  would  say, 
"  Excuse  my  glove,  sir  ;  it  is  the  honester  skin  of  the  two." 
And  he  has  told  me  more  than  once  that  on  parting  with 
a  client  after  a  heavy  picture-transaction,  and  dismissing 
him,  still  gloved,  with  his  favorite  remark,  he  fancied  the 
gentleman  believed  him.  "  But  he  was  wrong,  sir.  I  lost 


A   SUCCESSFUL   DEALER.  427 

by  nearly  every  one  of  'em."  So  long  as  an  artist  worked 
conscientiously  and  successfully  for  him  be  was  full  of 
praise  ;  and,  what  was  better,  carried  out  his  engagements 
to  the  letter,  and  sometimes  beyond  it ;  but  if  he  found  he 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  the  painter  had  what  he  called 
"gone  to  weeds,"  he  would  dispute  the  quality  of  the 
goods,  and  leave  the  painter  to  his  legal  remedy.  "  He 
call  hisself  an  artist !"  I  heard  him  say  of  a  friend  of  my 
own  ;  "  he  is  only  fit  to  be  a  fogey-trapper."  This  being 
the  Flatow  vernacular  for  photographer. 

Flatow's  business  became  very  large,  and  his  profits,  I 
believe,  proportionate.  I  had  many  transactions  with 
him,  though  never  of  the  importance  of  the  "  Railway 
Station,"  by  which  he  is  said  to  have  made  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds.  I  cannot,  and  do  not,  vouch  for  the  truth 
of  this  ;  but  as  he  died  worth  eighty  thousand  pounds,  he 
may  be  credited  with  having  made  a  large  profit  out  of 
ray  work.  Like  many  of  his  tribe,  he  was  fond  of  gems 
of  all  kinds — which  he  called  "  jools  " — and  fonder  still  of 
displaying  them  on  his  own  person.  He  would  sometimes 
offer  bracelets  and  rings  for  pictures  or  sketches,  but  at 
values  which  were  found  to  be  much  overrated.  I  was 
satisfied  with  one  transaction  of  that  nature  ;  other  artists 
were  not  so  fortunate. 

Flatow  was  scarcely  middle-aged  when  severe  illness 
struck  him  down.  His  sufferings  were  fearful.  He  had 
taken  a  large  house  in  Porchestcr  Terrace,  made  up  his 
mind  to  take  business  more  easily,  and  enjoy  what  he  said 
lie  had  "  stacked  away ;"  but  he  became  so  rapidly  worse 
as  to  leave  all  hope  behind.  He  had  no  family,  his  sole 
attendants  being  his  wife  and  one  of  our  old  models, 
named  Wall — from  whom  I  had  intelligence  of  his  last 
days.  The  poor  fellow's  temper  became  dreadful,  and  he 
attacked  his  doctors  furiously.  On  a  certain  occasion  one 
of  the  most  eminent  physicians  in  London  had  prescribed 
some  remedy  from  which  the  patient  thought  he  had  not 
only  derived  no  benefit,  but  had  been  made  actually  worse. 
In  answer  to  Flatow's  inquiry  if  the  medicine  was  to  be 
repeated,  the  physician  said,  in  broad  Scotch,  "  Yes,  ye'll 
just  take  the  draught  and  the  pills  again  to-night."  Fla- 


428  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

tow's  reply  was  :  "  You  infernal  Scotch,  lanky  brute  !  I 
only  wish  I  had  strength  enough  to  reach  you.  I'd  make 
you  spin  down-stairs  a  precious  sight  quicker  than  you 
came  up.  If  ever  you  show  your  ugly  face  here  again  I 
will  spoil  it  for  you." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  the  face  disappeared, 
never  to  return. 

One  touch  more  and  I  finish  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Flatow. 
The  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  an  early  summer's  morn- 
ing, when  Flatow  said  to  his  attendant,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible,  "Wall,  my  boy,  just  wheel  me  to  the  window. 
Put  me  where  I  can  see  down  the  Terrace.  There,  that 
will  do.  Don't  push  a  fellow  about  as  if  you  were  dealing 
with  a  sack  of  coals.  See  that  fellow  there,  that  mechanic 
chap  with  his  tools  on  his  back  going  to  work  ?  I'd  give 
all  I  possess,  and  more  if  I  had  it,  to  change  places  with 
him.  There,  move  me  back,  and  just  take  care  how  you 
do  it,  and  pull  down  the  blind." 

A  few  days'  more  suffering  and  the  end  came. 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

A    STRANGE    ADVENTURE. 

I  MUST  now  return  to  my  own  doings,  when  a  strange 
adventure  befell  me.  I  had  just  put  down  palette  and 
brushes,  at  the  close  of  a  long  day's  work,  when  a  visitor 
was  announced. 

"A  lady,  sir;  she  wouldn't  give  her  name.  She  has 
come  in  a  beautiful  carriage  and  pair,  sir — coachman  and 
footman.  She  says  you  will  know  her." 

In  my  drawing-room  I  found  a  tall,  handsome  woman, 
approaching  middle  age,  dressed  in  black.  When  I  en- 
tered the  room  she  was  attentively  studying  the  engrav- 
ing of  my  picture  of  "  Claude  Duval."  She  turned,  and  I 
saw  a  face  that  was  entirely  strange  to  me. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me  ?  I  sat  to  you  for  that  pict- 
ure many  years  ago." 

I  pleaded  my  infirmity  in  remembering  faces. 

"  Ah !  I  have  changed,  no  doubt ;  but  I  thought  you 
would  remember  me.  Can  we  go  into  your  painting-room? 
I  want  to  see  it  again,  and  I  have  also  a  proposal  to  make." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  I,  and  I  attempted  to  lead  the  way. 

"  Oh,  I  know  my  way,"  said  my  visitor,  and  when  in 
the  passage  she  turned  to  go  to  the  old  studio,  now  a  bill- 
iard-room. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  since  you  were  here  I  have  built  another 
painting-room  at  the  top  of  the  house." 

We  went  up-stairs,  and  when  in  the  new  studio  the  lady 
turned  to  me  and  said,  rather  abruptly, 

"  I  want  you  to  paint  my  portrait.  Now  look  well  at 
me.  Don't  you  remember  me  ?  I  sat  to  you  many  times." 

Not  for  the  life  of  me — the  face  was  perfectly  strange. 

"  I  married  soon  after  I  saw  you  last,"  said  she,  "  and 
I  have  one  daughter;  she  is  to  be  married  in  the  autumn. 


430  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I  want  you  to  paint  my  likeness,  to  be  presented  to  her  as 
a  wedding-present,  but" — in  a  low  voice,  and  with  an  air 
more  mysterious,  I  thought,  than  the  occasion  warranted — 
"  it  must  be  a  dead  secret ;  my  husband  must  not  know 
of  it  for  the  world,  nor  my  daughter,  of  course.  When 
can  I  sit  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  do  what  you  wish.  In  a  fort- 
night's time  I  shall  be  at  leisure,  and  you  can  sit  when 
you  please  after  then." 

"  In  a  fortnight,  then,  I  will  be  here." 

After  my  visitor  left  me  I  puzzled  myself  trying  to  re- 
member her.  Strange  if  I  had  painted  the  face  that  I 
could  recall  no  trace  of  it.  The  model  for  the  two  prin- 
cipal figures  in  the  "  Claude  Duval "  I  remembered  per- 
fectly, and  she  was  certainly  not  the  lady  who  had  just 
left  me.  I  referred  to  my  diary,  and  I.  found  that  a  Miss 
K had  sat  to  me  for  some  chalk-studies  of  the  prin- 
cipal figure.  Could  she  be  this  lady  ? 

A  fortnight  passed,  and  punctually  to  the  time  fixed 
my  model  came.  She  was  very  handsome,  but  with  a  face 
so  melancholy  as  to  defy  all  my  attempts  to  give  a  cheer- 
ful expression  to  the  picture. 

"  I  am  very  unhappy  at  home,"  she  said  ;  "  thwarted  in 
everything  I  desire.  I  sometimes  think  there  is  a  con- 
spiracy to  distress  me." 

To  this  I  made  some  commonplace  reply.  I  found  my 
sitter  quite  impervious  to  all  my  endeavors  to  remove  the 
gloom  that  oppressed  her.  The  sad  expression  was  not 
without  its  charm,  and  I  felt  I  had  no  choice  but  to 
adopt  it. 

"  May  I  ask  what  your  name  was  when  you  sat  for  me  ?" 
said  I. 

"  K ,  Mjss  K ,"  was  the  reply. 

Any  doubt  that  was  possible  was  dispelled  ;  there  could 
be  no  question  about  our  having  met  before,  but  under 

what  different  circumstances !  Miss  K was  certainly 

an  ordinary  artist's  model,  and  on  further  inquiry  I  found 
that  she  acknowledged  to  having  sat  for  several  friends 
of  mine,  whose  names  she  mentioned. 

The  sittings  progressed  with  results  more  or  less  favor- 


A   STRANGE    AD  VENTURE.  431 

able,  the  gloom  occasionally  deepened,  alternating  with 
Hashes  of  strange  excitement  when  my  sitter  spoke  of 
some  slight  that  had  been  passed  upon  her,  which,  when 
explained,  never  seemed  to  justify  her  agitation. 

"  If  my  husband  knew  of  this,  though  it  is  not  to  please 
myself,  he  would  very  likely  oppose  it,  just  because  I  de- 
sire to  please  my  daughter.  It  is  my  affair ;  he  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  I  hope  you  understand  it  is  my  affair ; 
I  pay  for  it  myself." 

I  confess  I  felt  that  I  was  scarcely  justified  in  lending 
myself  to  a  secret  treaty  of  this  kind.  I  ought,  perhaps, 
to  have  refused  to  paint  the  portrait  at  all,  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  lady's  husband  ;  but  it  was  far  advanced 
before  the  above  conversation  took  place,  and  all  artists 
know  that  portraits  intended  for  presents  are  often  pro- 
duced under  secret  conditions. 

The  work  progressed  till  two  sittings  were  all  that  were 
required  to  complete  it.  An  appointment  was  made,  and 
a  letter  came  from  my  sitter  in  reply,  telling  me  that  she 
had  left  town  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  who  had  kindly  offered 
to  bring  her  to  the  next  sitting.  Punctually  to  time  as 
ever,  the  lady  came  ;  as  she  was  shown  into  my  room  my 
servant  said : 

"  The  gentleman  will  be  glad  to  know  at  what  time  he 
is  to  call  for  Mrs.  Y ." 

I  named  an  hour,  and  proceeded  with  my  work. 

"  You  don't  seem  well,"  I  said ;  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
suffering." 

"  Suffering  !  I  should  think  I  am  suffering.  Who  would 
not  suffer  if  they  had  to  bear —  But  there,  it's  of  no  use 
saying  any  more  about  it.  Try  to  get  through  your  work 
a  little  sooner  to-day,  if  you  can." 

"  Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  I ;  "  but  you  forget 
that  an  hour  is  fixed  for  your  friend  to  fetch  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  forget ;  I  can't  forget  anything.  I  have 
something  to  do  ;  I  must  go  soon.  Yes,  indeed  ;  but  I 
will  be  back  in  time  enough  to  meet  the  doctor." 

"  Oh,  your  friend  is  a  doctor  !  Is  he  your  regular  medi- 
cal man  ?" 

"  Yes — no.    I  am  very  well ;  I  don't  want  a  medical  man." 


432  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"A  friend  only?"  asked  I. 

Then  after  a  pause  my  sitter  said : 

"  That  is  all.     Can  I  go  now  ?" 

"  In  a  few  minutes,"  I  replied. 

The  lady  trembled  with  excitement  as  she  hastily  as- 
sumed her  cloak  and  hat.  I  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant, 
who  met  me,  and  I  accompanied  my  sitter  down-stairs. 

"  The  lady  is  not  going,  is  she,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  the  lady  is  going !"  said  my  sitter  in  a  sharp 
voice,  and  almost  before  I  could  look  round  she  was  out 
of  the  house. 

"  Oh  dear,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  am  so  sorry !  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  that  the  gentleman  who  came  with  the  lady  this 
morning  said  she  was  on  no  account  to  be  allowed  to  go 
till  he  came  for  her.  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you." 

"And  if  you  had  told  me,"  said  I,  "I  couldn't  stop  the 
lady  if  she  desired  to  leave." 

The  front-door  bell  rang  soon  afterwards. 

"  I  do  believe  that  is  the  gentleman,"  said  the  servant. 

"  If  so  he  has  come  much  before  his  time,"  said  I,  as  I 
went  back  to  my  studio. 

"  It  is  the  gentleman,  sir ;  and  he  is  in  such  a  way !  He 
wants  to  see  you." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  He  is  walking  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

To  the  drawing-room  I  went,  and  was  met  by  an  elderly 
man  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  that,  after  making  an 
ineffectual  effort  to  speak,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair 
and  stared  at  me  with  a  look  of  horror. 

"  How  could  you  let  her  go  ?  I  told  your  servant  she 
was  on  no  account  to  stir  till  I  fetched  her.  I  knew  this 
would  be  a  risk  ;  I  told  her  husband  so.  She  ought  not 
to  have  come." 

"  Really,  sir,"  said  I,  "  I  don't  understand  you."  My 
servant  forgot  to  give  your  message  to  me;  and  if  she 
had  delivered  it,  I  had  no  power  to  stop  Mrs.  Y—  —  when 
she  wished  to  go." 

"  Sir,  she  is  a  lunatic,  and  in  my  charge.  I  am  respon- 
sible for  her  safe  custody.  What  is  to  be  done  now?" 


A   M  KAV.i:    ADVENTURE.  433 

"  Mrs.  Y assured  me  she  would  come  back  at  the 

time  fixed,"  said  I,  when  I  had  recovered  composure. 

"  Come  back !  She  won't  come  back  ;  I  know  that  well 
enough !  However,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait 
and  see.  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  seen  no  sign  of 
madness  ?" 

"  None  whatever,"  said  I. 

I  passed  a  very  uncomfortable  quarter  of  an  hour  with 
the  doctor,  who  resumed  his  walk  up  and  down  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  appointed  hour  passed,  and  no  Mrs.  Y . 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  doctor.  "  She  may  have  gone 
home.  "Would  you  let  your  servant  call  a  cab  ?  and  will 
you  go  with  me  to  the  house  ?  The  poor  husband  is  away. 
The  house  is  not  far  off." 

To  the  house  we  went.   A  footman  opened  the  door  to  us. 

"Mrs.  Y here?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"Not  been— eh?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Frith,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  needn't  take  up 
any  more  of  your  time.  I  can't  blame  you  ;  it's  very  un- 
fortunate. I  shall  go  home  after  I  have  consulted  with 
the  most  likely  people  to  find  her.  God  knows  what  I 
am  to  say  to  her  husband  !  Yes,  I  will  let  you  know  when 
we  hear  of  her." 

We  shook  hands  and  parted.  In  a  few  days  I  heard 
from  the  doctor  that  the  poor  woman  was  found  wander- 
ing aimlessly  about  the  streets  long  after  midnight,  not 
far  from  her  own  home. 

Mr.  Y came  to  see  the  portrait ;  and,  though  he 

seemed  to  think  that  it  should  not  have  been  undertaken 
without  his  knowledge,  in  which  he  was  possibly  right, 
he  paid  for  it,  and  behaved  in  all  respects  in  a  gentlemanly 
spirit. 

I  have  since  heard  that  my  sitter's  case  is  incurable. 
Her  daughter  is  married,  and  the  unfortunate  husband's 
home  is  broken  up.  I  leave  experts  in  these  dreadful 
cases  to  explain  the  concealment  of  aberration  of  mind, 
which  must  have  existed  during  the  many  hours  the  poor 
lady  sat  to  me.  It  is,  of  course,  possible  that  the  latent 
19 


434  MY    AUTOBIOGKAPI1Y    AND    KEMINISCENCES. 

disease  only  showed  itself  in  such  force  as  to  necessitate 
restraint  at  the  latter  part  of  the  time  required  for  my 
work ;  but  it  is  strange  to  me  that,  beyond  an  excited 
manner,  to  be  accounted  for  by  other  causes,  I  never  dis- 
covered anything  exceptional  in  the  poor  lady's  conduct. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

MEN-SERVANTS. 

I  THINK  if  I  were  ever  so  rich  I  should  as  much  as  pos- 
sible avoid  men-servants ;  not  that  I  have  a  word  to  say 
against  a  highly  respectable  portion  of  the  community, 
but  being,  like  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  an  admirer  of 
Iwppy  faces,  I  am  also  an  admirer  of  pretty  ones,  only 
they  must  be  of  the  female  order.  Those  who  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  be  guests  at  the  hospitable  house  of  the 
late  John  Penn,  of  engineering  fame,  may  remember  that, 
however  extensive  might  be  the  dinner,  and  however  large 
the  number  of  diners,  the  whole  service  was  conducted  by 
women,  dressed  alike,  and  resembling  each  other  also  in 
another  and  pleasanter  form,  for  they  were  good-looking 
without  an  exception.  As  I  have  elsewhere  shown,  I  have 
been  able  to  secure  the  services  of  some  of  my  servants  as 
models — a  practice  I  don't  recommend,  because  it  is  apt 
to  "  turn  their  heads  "  a  little,  and  to  make  them  careless 
over  less  agreeable  duties. 

In  the  whole  course  of  my  life  I  have  employed  only 
three  male  servants.  With  the  first  I  had  a  very  good 
character,  which  I  found,  on  trial,  was  well  deserved.  He 
was  a  good-looking,  active  young  fellow,  and  would  have 
been  altogether  satisfactory  but  for  two  failings— one 
being  a  determination  to  make  as  much  noise  as  possible 
during  every  operation  he  was  called  upon  to  perform. 
He  succeeded  in  getting  the  greatest  amount  of  noise  pos- 
sible out  of  a  door  in  opening  or  shutting  it ;  he  banged 
the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  table,  rattled  the  knives  and 
forks,  and  broke  more  crockery  than  the  most  destructive 
of  our  servants  had  ever  done  before  his  coming.  His 
second  failing  was  a  total  defiance  of  the  prescribed  hour 
for  his  return  when  he  had  his  "  Sunday  out."  He  was 


436  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

informed  that  eleven  o'clock  must  never  be  passed  before 
his  return,  and  he  so  frequently  preferred  twelve,  and 
sometimes  half-past  twelve,  that  I  was  constrained  to  in- 
form him — after  about  his  tenth  infringement  of  our  rule — 
that  the  next  time  he  committed  himself  would  be  the  last. 
For  a  short  time  my  warning  was  effectual ;  but  the  fate- 
ful Sunday  night  came  at  last.  At  midnight  my  man  had 
not  returned,  and  it  was  nearer  one  than  twelve  o'clock 
when  he  made  his  appearance. 

"  Now,  West,"  said  I,  "  do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ?" 

"Yes;  I'm  afraid  I  am  rather  late,  sir.  The  fact  is,  me 
and—" 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  of  your  doings ;  you  know  I  told 
you  that  the  next  time  you  committed  yourself  you  would 
be  discharged,  and  I  now  give  you  notice  that — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  —  you  may  not  be  aware  of  it, 
but  no  gentleman  can  give  notice  of  a  Sunday  night." 

"I  know  that,"  said  I,  "and  if  you  had  returned  home 
on  Sunday  night,  I  might  have  excused  you;  but,  you  see, 
it  is  Monday  morning." 

So  Mr.  West  and  I  parted  company.  West  figures  in 
the  "  Railway  Station  "  picture,  disguised  as  a  porter,  who 
is  informing  an  old  lady  that  she  must  take  a  dog-ticket 
for  a  pet  she  is  endeavoring  to  smuggle  into  the  train. 

West's  situation  was  almost  immediately  filled  by  a  man 
of  very  imposing  presence,  who  had  passed  middle  life. 
He  came  to  us  from  a  nobleman  whom  he  had  served  as 
butler,  and  from  whom  we  received  a  character  satisfac- 
tory in  all  respects.  He  was  honest,  sober,  attentive,  and 
the  rest  of  it,  and  his  name  was  Johnson.  If  West  had 
been  noisy,  Johnson  was  his  exact  opposite ;  indeed,  so  si- 
lent and  stealthy,  so  to  speak,  were  his  movements,  that  it 
was  necessary  to  be  guarded  in  speaking  of  matters  not 
intended  for  kitchen  discussion,  for  Johnson  was  upon  us 
at  times  with  a  ghostlike  suddenness.  My  friends  told 
me  that,  as  he  stood  behind  my  chair  at  dinner,  the  con- 
trast between  servant  and  master  was  very  unfavorable  to 
the  latter.  "What  a  refined  character  there  is  in  the 
head  of  your  butler !  he  looks  like  an  archbishop,"  said  an 
artist  friend;  "I  wonder  you  don't  paint  him  !"  No  one 


MEN-SERVANTS.  437 

ever  called  West  a  butler ;  and  no  one  called  Johnson  any- 
thing else. 

That  my  new  man  had  a  taste  for  the  fine  arts  might  be 
assumed,  if  the  fact  of  his  long  and  solemn  contemplation 
of  the  "  Railway  Station  "  picture  was  a  proof;  for  when- 
ever he  had  occasion  to  visit  the  painting-room  he  would 
stare  first  at  the  picture  and  then  at  me,  seeming  by  his 
expression  to  have  a  difficulty  in  determining  which  he 
admired  the  more. 

The  awe  with  which  he  inspired  my  children  soon  wore 
off.  They  were  small  and  noisy,  as  is  the  habit  with  such 
little  people;  and  after  enduring  a  very  demonstrative 
ebullition  of  juvenile  spirits  at  the  midday  dinner  on  one 
occasion,  the  rioters  were  silenced  by  a  solemn  exclama- 
tion from  Johnson  of  "Quietoode,  children  —  quietoode  !" 
This  startled  the  children  into  quietness  for  a  moment,  to 
be  changed  into  more  noise  than  ever.  Johnson  then 
repeated  his  admonition.  This  was  strange  conduct  on 
the  part  of  a  servant ;  the  man  had  always  been  most  re- 
spectful. 

"  Did  you  notice  Johnson's  walk  as  he  left  the  room  ?" 
said  my  wife.  "Do  you  think  he  drinks?" 

"Good  gracious,  no  !"  said  I.  "He  seems  the  pink  of 
propriety;  still  his  manner  is  strange." 

As  the  day  wore  on  Johnson's  conduct  became  more 
eccentric.  He  was  told  to  put  some  coals  on  the  drawing- 
room  fire. 

"  I  positively  decline  to  do  so,  sir." 

"  What !"  said  I ;  "  you  decline  to—" 

"  Sir,"  interrupted  Johnson,  "  I  shall  always  be  happy 
to  obey  all  reasonable  orders.  If  the  fire  wanted  coals  I 
would  willingly  supply  the  want ;  but  such  is  not  the  case 
— not  the  case  !  No,  sir,  not  the  case  !"  and  the  butler 
left  the  room,  taking  the  coal-scuttle  with  him. 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  has  come  to  the  man  ?"  said  I. 
"  His  conduct  is  only  to  be  explained  according  to  your 
theory ;  or  else  he  is  going  off  his  head." 

Johnson  waited  at  our  late  dinner  in  his  usual  solemn 
manner,  without  a  trace  of  any  exceptional  condition;  but 
later  in  the  evening,  when  it  became  Johnson's  duty  to 


438  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

fill  the  teapot  with  boiling  water,  he  poured  the  water 
past  the  teapot,  and  was  within  an  ace  of  scalding  a  child, 
who  made  a  rapid  escape  from  the  butler's  neighborhood. 

"Take  care  what  you  are  about.  You  very  nearly 
scalded  that  boy." 

"  That  boy,  sir,  is  always  in  the  way.  I  never,  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  life,  saw  such  a  boy." 

"  Johnson,"  said  I,  "  you  are  exceedingly  disrespectful, 
and  if  you — " 

"  I  disrespectful !"  said  the  man,  in  accents  of  intense 
astonishment.  "I  have  lived  in  the  highest  of  families, 
and  have  always  been  treated  with  great  respect.  I  little 
thought,  sir,  that  I  should  be  accused  of  that." 

"Now,"  said  my  wife,  "I  hope  you  are  satisfied  that 
there  is  something  very  wrong  about  that  man,  and  I  hope 
you  will  get  rid  of  him  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Wait,"  said  I,  "  we  shall  soon  have  further  justifica- 
tion for  sending  him  about  his  business,  unless  I  am  much 
mistaken." 

I  was  sitting  reading  in  my  dining-room  that  same  even- 
ing—  somewhat  absorbed  in  a  novel  by  my  old  friend 
Wilkie  Collins  —  when  I  was  startled  by  a  voice  behind 
me.  I  turned  and  beheld  Johnson,  who  said  : 

"You  ought  to  go  down  on  your  bended  knees  every 
night  of  your  life,  and  thank  'eaven  which  have  blessed 
you  with  the  extronary  talents  as  has  given  you  the  power 
of  prodoocing  them  pictures.  Yes  ;  there's  the  "  Rail- 
way Station "  with  all  them  people.  Why,  it's  wonder- 
ful !  I  really  can't  think  'ow  it's  all  done.  Oh,  I  don't 
think  yon  are  'alf  thankful  enough,  and  it's  my  dooty  to 
tell  you." 

"  Have  you  quite  finished  ?"  said  I. 

"  Finished  ?"  hiccoughed  my  respectable  butler  —  "  fin- 
ished what  ?  What  are  you  a-talking  about,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?  And  permit  me  to  take  the  present  occasion  to 
inform  you" — here  he  paused,  and  attempted  to  fix  me 
with  a  glassy  eye-^"  that  you  have  got  a  pack  of  noisy, 
impident  children  as  deserves  a  precious  good  'iding.  I 
know  I  shall  be  'itting  some  of  'em  some  day." 

"  Leave  the  room  instantly  !"  said  I.     "  You  are  drunk." 


MEN-8EUVANTS.  439 

I  never  saw  surprise  more  vividly  expressed  by  a  human 
face. 

"  He  says  Pm  DRUNK  !  Me,  James  Johnson,  which  lias 
'ad  the  best  of  character  from —  Then  savagely,  "  This 
'ere's  actionable."  Then  in  bantering  tones,  "  The  next 
thing  as  you'll  say  is  that  I've  bin  and  made  away  with 
your  bit  of  plate.  Ah,  do  !  There  you  go.  Send  for  the 
detectives  as  you've  done  in  the  picture.  Have  me  took 
up  and  put  in  the  picture.  Why  not,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?" 

"  Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  leave  this  room?" 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Wait  a  bit.  Is  that  water  as 
you've  got  there?  Ah,  it  is."  Then  seizing  a  tumbler 
and  the  water-bottle,  he  succeeded  in  spilling  some  water 
into  the  tumbler,  and  much  more  on  to  the  carpet,  and 
then  said,  "  I'm  that  thirsty  ;  I  think  it  must  be  that  salt- 
beef." 

"  To  -  morrow  morning,"  said  I,  "  you  will  perhaps  be 
sober  enough  to  receive  a  notice  to  leave  my  service  at 
once.  Till  then,  I  insist  on  your  going  to  bed." 

"  I'm  a-going,  I'm  a-going ;  and  mind  before  you  lays 
your  head  on  to  your  pillow  you  take  my  advice,  and 
thank  'eaven  which  has — " 

Here  Mr.  Johnson,  assisted  by  a  push  from  me,  stag- 
gered through  the  door,  and  went  blundering  down  the  pas- 
sage to  bed. 

The  subsequent  career  of  my  dignified  butler  is  soon  re- 
lated. After  making  a  futile  attempt  to  get  a  character 
from  me  for  "  honesty,  sobriety,  etc.,"  he  gave  up  the  idea 
of  returning  to  domestic  service,  and  acquired,  in  some  way 
or  other,  an  invalid  Bath -chair,  in  which  he  induced  sev- 
eral people  in  delicate  health  to  trust  themselves.  I  have 
frequently  met  him  with  his  invalid  charges.  He  inva- 
riably stopped  and  pointed  me  out  to  his  passenger,  no 
doubt  informing  him  or  her,  as  the  case  might  be,  how  lit- 
tle gratitude  I  felt  for  the  talent  which  "'eaven  had  be- 
stowed upon  me." 

His  last  feat  was  to  drag  an  old  lady  into  the  middle  of 
Hyde  Park,  leave  her  there,  while  he  went  to  a  public- 
house,  got  drunk,  and  forgot  all  about  her.  The  invalid 


440 

waited  patiently  for  some  time,  at  last  got  thoroughly 
frightened,  and  screamed  till  a  policeman  went  to  the 
rescue  and  dragged  the  sick  woman  to  her  home.  What 
became  of  the  Bath-chair,  this  deponent  knoweth  not. 

Of  my  last  experience  of  the  male  domestic  I  have  noth- 
ing but  what  is  pleasant  to  say.  Farrer — my  third's  name 
— was  a  steady  young  fellow,  and  a  most  excellent  servant. 
He  left  me  to  "  better  himself,"  in  which  I  hope  he  suc- 
ceeded. With  him  I  bid  adieu  forever  and  a  day  to  men- 
servants. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
"THE   PBIVATB  VIEW." 

SEVEN  years  ago  certain  ladies  delighted  to  display 
themselves  at  public  gatherings  in  what  are  called  aesthet- 
ic dresses ;  in  some  cases  the  costumes  were  pretty  enough, 
in  others  they  seemed  to  rival  each  other  in  ugliness  of 
form  and  oddity  of  color.  There  were  —  and  still  are,  I 
believe  —  preachers  of  aestheticism  in  dress;  but  I  think, 
and  hope,  that  the  preaching  is  much  less  effective  than 
it  used  to  be.  The  contrast  between  the  really  beautiful 
costumes  of  some  of  the  lady  habituees  of  our  private 
view  and  the  eccentric  garments  of  others,  together  with 
the  opportunity  offered  for  portraits  of  eminent  persons, 
suggested  a  subject  for  a  picture,  and  I  hastened  to  avail 
myself  of  it.  Beyond  the  desire  of  recording  for  posteri- 
ty the  aesthetic  craze  as  regards  dress,  I  wished  to  hit  the 
folly  of  listening  to  self-elected  critics  in  matters  of  taste, 
whether  in  dress  or  art.  I  therefore  planned  a  group, 
consisting  of  a  well-known  apostle  of  the  beautiful,  with  a 
herd  of  eager  worshippers  surrounding  him.  He  is  sup- 
posed to  be  explaining  his  theories  to  willing  ears,  taking 
some  picture  on  the  Academy  walls  for  his  text.  A  group 
of  well-known  artists  are  watching  the  scene.  On  the  left 
of  the  composition  is  a  family  of  pure  aesthetes  absorbed 
in  affected  study  of  the  pictures.  Near  them  stands  An- 
thony Trollope,  whose  homely  figure  affords  a  striking 
contrast  to  the  eccentric  forms  near  him.  The  rest  of  the 
composition  is  made  up  of  celebrities  of  all  kinds,  states- 
men, poets,  judges,  philosophers,  musicians,  painters,  ac- 
tors, and  others.  Miss  Braddon  —  close  to  her  Sir  Julius 
Benedict — is  talking  to  a  friend.  Mr.  Gladstone  shakes 
hands  with  Sir  Stafford  Northcote,  Sir  William  Harcourt 
and  Mr.  Bright  standing  by.  Mr.  Browning  talks  to  an 
19* 


442  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

aesthetic  lady,  whose  draped  back  affords  a  chance  of 
showing  that  view  of  the  costume.  Sir  F.  Leighton  is  in 
earnest  conversation  with  Lady  Lonsdale,  who  sits  on  one 
of  the  ottomans  in  the  gallery  not  far  from  Lady  Diana 
Huddleston,  Baroness  Burdett  -  Coutts,  and  others.  Pro- 
fessor Huxley  is  prominent,  as  are  also  the  Archbishop  of 
York,  Lord  Coleridge,  and  Mrs.  Langtry,  Mr.  Agnew  (then 
M.P.),  Baron  Huddleston — by  the  latter  stand  Messrs. 
Tenniel  and  Du  Maurier — and  many  others ;  among  whom 
I  must  not  forget  Miss  Ellen  Terry  and  my  old  friends 
Irving  and  Sala.  I  received  the  kindest  assistance  from 
all  these  eminent  persons,  many  of  whom  came  to  me  at 
great  sacrifice  of  time  and  engagements.  Mr.  Gladstone 
was  one  of  the  first  to  come,  but  his  first  sitting  was  cruel- 
ly short,  as  he  was  obliged  to  attend  another  appointment. 
How  agreeable  he  can  make  himself  goes  without  saying. 
Wishing  to  catch  an  animated  expression,  I  kept  him  in 
conversation,  and  in  the  course  of  it  I  made  a  somewhat 
trite  remark  upon  the  rarity  of  the  numberless  witticisms 
ascribed  to  different  humorists  having  been  actually  heard 
at  their  inception,  most  of  them  I  thought,  and  still  think, 
being  after-thoughts  generated  in  seclusion.  As  an  in- 
stance to  the  contrary,  however,  Mr.  Gladstone  told  me 
the  following: 

Sir  Francis  Burdett  began  his  public  life  as  a  pronounced 
patriot,  and  suffered,  as  is  well  known,  by  imprisonment 
in  the  Tower  for  proceedings  arising  out  of  his  too  demon- 
strative patriotism.  In  after-life,  however,  the  patriot 
changed  into  something  so  opposed  to  his  former  inclin- 
ing, as  to  betray  him,  during  a  furious  harangue  in  Parlia- 
ment, into  expressions  that  were  scarcely  parliamentary ; 
for  in  condemning  a  measure  that  was  before  the  House  of 
too  radical  a  kind,  which  had  received  the  warm  support 
of  a  member  noted  for  his  ultra-liberal  principles,  Sir 
Francis  concluded  his  speech  by  exclaiming  that  "of  all 
the  cants  in  the  world,  the  cant  of  patriotism  was  the  most 
intolerable,  not  to  say  disgusting.''1  Lord  John  Russell 
rose  to  reply,  and  after  doing  his  best  to  traverse  the  argu- 
ment of  Sir  F.  Burdett,  concluded  his  speech  in  the  fol- 
lowing words  :  "  There  is  one  thing,  however,  in  which  I 


"TIJE    PRIVATE    VIEW."  443 

entirely  agree  with  the  honorable  gentleman.  I  think, 
with  him,  that  the  cant  of  patriotism  is  intolerable,  and 
even,  to  use  his  own  expression,  disgusting  ;  but  I  venture 
to  say  that  there  is  something  even  more  intolerable  and 
more  disgusting,  and  that  is  the  REcant  of  patriotism." 

In  support  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  theory  I  gave  him  the 
following  instance  of  ready  wit.  I  forget  in  what  year  it 
was  that  I  exhibited  a  picture  that  obtained  a  large  share 
of  popular  approval.  It  was  shown  at  the  Royal  Academy, 
and  on  the  private-view  day  I  met  Mr.  Bernal  Osborne, 
who,  a  day  or  two  before,  had  convulsed  the  House  of 
Commons  by  one  of  his  witty  and  brilliant  speeches.  He 
complimented  me  very  much  on  my  picture,  and  I  very 
sincerely  returned  his  compliments,  with  interest,  on  his 
speech. 

"I  will  tell  you  what,"  said  he,  "I  will  exchange  my 
tongue  for  jour  palette." 

If  this  be  original,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  the 
reply  was  so  good  as  to  excuse  my  repeating  so  palpable  a 
compliment  to  myself.  Exceptions,  however,  prove  the 
rule,  and  the  instances  are  indeed  rare  of  witty  sayings 
being  heard  by  myself  at  their  birth. 

Another  example  to  the  contrary  from  a  man  I  knew 
intimately,  who  was  celebrated  for  his  brilliant  conversa- 
tional powers — namely,  the  late  Shirley  Brooks — may  be 
mentioned  here. 

In  the  course  of  a  conversation  on  poets  and  poetry  the 
merits  of  a  gentleman,  whose  writings  display  a  warmth 
which  many  of  his  readers  think  hails  from  a  place  unmen- 
tionable to  ears  polite,  were  nearly  as  warmly  discussed. 

"  Not  a  poet  at  all  ?"  said  one  admirer,  in  reply  to  an 
audacious  unbeliever;  "why,  the  man  was  born  a  poet ! 
and  if  ever  man  proved  the  truth  of  the  adage,  *  Poeta 
nascitur,  nonfitj  X is  that  man." 

"  So  he  is,"  said  Brooks ;  "  he  is  a  poet  of  nastiness  not 
fit  for  publication."  Surely  a  witty  play  upon  the  Latin 
words. 

One  more  example  is,  I  think,  all  I  can  remember. 

Among  our  friends  was  a  young  gentleman  who  rejoiced 
in  a  nose  so  "  tip-tilted  " — to  use  Tennyson's  phrase — as 


444  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

to  be  very  remarkable  indeed  for  that  peculiarity.  He 
received  numerous  quips  about  his  unfortunate  feature, 
and  accepted  them  with  good-humor,  except  on  one  occa- 
sion, when  he  said,  gravely  : 

"I  say,  look  here  ;  I  object  to  your  making  my  nose  a 
subject  of  conversation." 

"That  is  unfortunate,"  replied  his  friend;  "we  wanted 
a  subject,  and  we  took  the  first  that  turned  up" 

To  return  to  "  The  Private  View." 

While  painting  this  picture  I  was  not  a  great  employer 
of  the  "  artist's  model,"  except  for  some  of  the  aesthetes, 
the  principal  one  being  a  portrait  of  a  young  person  named 
Jenny  Trip.  Miss  Trip  was  a  trial  to  me.  Never  did  she 
"  come  to  her  time."  Her  conversational  powers  were  nil. 
Nothing  that  I  could  say  seemed  to  interest  her  in  the 
slightest  degree,  and,  unless  I  spoke,  silence  reigned.  She 
had  a  pretty,  pensive  face,  on  which  a  smile  seemed  as 
much  out  of  place  as  it  would  be  on  the  face  of  a  mute  at 
a  funeral.  This  most  provoking  smile  was  more  especially 
irritating  when  it  was  the  only  reply  to  a  terrific  scolding. 

"  What  is  your  father?"  said  I  to  her  one  day,  when  she 
came  into  my  studio  two  hours  late. 

"  He  is  a  stoker  on  the  Chatham  and  Dover  line." 

"  How  early  does  he  get  to  his  work  ?" 

"He  goes  out  at  five  in  the  morning." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I ;  "and  his  daughter — that  is  you — can- 
not get  to  your  work  by  ten.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

Not  a  word  of  excuse.  She  smiled.  I  made  a  mental 
vow  that,  once  the  esthete  was  finished,  my  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Trip  should  finish  too.  That  happy  moment 
came  at  last ;  there  was  but  little  to  do,  and  for  that  little 
my  smiling  friend  was  not  absolutely  necessary. 

"  As  you  find  it  impossible  to  get  here  by  ten,  perhap's 
you  can  come  at  two  to-morrow  ?" 

She  said  she  could,  and  smiled. 

"  Now  observe,  Miss  Trip,"  said  I, "  if  you  are  not  punct- 
ual to-morrow  you  will  be  sent  away." 

She  smiled  again,  and  departed. 

I  then  told  my  servant  that  unless  the  young  lady  was 


"TIIE  PEIVATE  VIEW."  445 

within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  time  fixed,  she  was  not 
to  be  admitted. 

I  allowed  two  o'clock  to  pass,  and  at  three,  my  servant 
happening  to  come  into  my  room,  I  asked  after  Miss  Jenny 
Trip. 

"  She  has  just  been,  and  gone  again,  sir." 
"  What  did  she  say  when  you  told  her  you  had  orders 
to  send  her  away  because  she  was  after  her  time  ?" 
"  She  didn't  say  anything,  sir  ;  she  only  smiled." 
My  sole  contribution  to  the  Exhibition  of  1882  was  a 
portrait  of  Miss  Emily  Levy,  an  old  and  valued  friend. 
With  that  exception,  and  another  in  the  form  of  a  por- 
trait of  Mrs.  Lee,  a  great  part  of  the  year  1881,  and  nearly 
the  whole  of   1882,  was  spent  on  the  picture  of  "The 
Private  View." 

In  the  course  of  a  summer  holiday  spent  in  Switzerland 
in  1882,  a  little  subject  was  suggested  by  the  mode  adopted 
for  carrying  ladies  up  the  mountains.  The  fair  traveller 
sits  in  a  wooden  chair,  which  is  supported  on  two  long 
poles,  and  carried  by  relays  of  porters,  one  at  *?ach  end. 
This  method  of  locomotion  is  apt  to  remind  one  of  the 
5th  of  November ;  but  I  thought  that  a  pretty  bride,  with 
a  manly  bridegroom,  to  say  nothing  of  the  picturesque 
porters  and  the  still  more  picturesque  surroundings,  might 
produce  a  pleasing  subject ;  and  there  were  the  advantages 
in  it,  very  valuable  in  my  eyes,  of  its  being  a  subject  of 
modern  life.  This  picture,  with  Mrs.  Lee's  portrait  and 
"The  Private  View,"  formed  my  contributions  to  the 
Exhibition  of  1883.  Pictures  composed  of  groups  of  well- 
known  people  are  always  very  popular  at  the  Academy, 
and  "  The  Private  View  "  was  no  exception  to  that  rule, 
a  guard  being  again  found  necessary  to  control  the  crowds 
of  visitors.  I  may  perhaps  be  pardoned  for  recording  the 
fact  of  this  picture  being  the  sixth  painted  by  me  that  has 
received  this  special  compliment. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

DK.  DORAN. 

WHEN  I  assert  that  story -telling  is  a  difficult  art,  I  only 
repeat  a  truism.  A  man  may  be  what  is  commonly  called 
"  full  of  anecdote,"  but  he  may  also  be,  from  various 
causes,  quite  unable  to  tell  a  story  properly.  He  may  be  of 
a  nervous  temperament,  and  forget  the  point  of  his  anec- 
dote before  he  has  got  half-way  through  it,  and  his  audi- 
ence may  decline  to  be  interested — interrupt  him  by  con- 
versation with  one  another — and  at  last  leave  him  high 
and  dry  without  a  listener.  Or  a  disturbing  feeling  may 
come  over  him  that  he  has  told  the  same  anecdote  to  the 
same  people  before.  These  and  other  interruptions  so 
often  affect  the  raconteur  as  to  paralyze  him,  and  cause 
many  a  good  story  to  fall  stillborn  upon  his  audience. 
But  of  all  story-tellers,  save  me  from  the  man  who,  with 
loud  and  persistent  voice,  takes  the  company  by  the  throat, 
and,  like  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  compels  them  to 
listen  to  a  long  tirade,  dull  and  pointless,  and  to  his  own 
screeching  laugh  at  the  end  of  it.  No  good  raconteur 
ever  laughs  at  his  own  funny  anecdotes.  Why  should  he? 
He  has  surely  often  heard  them  before,  and  if  he  who  roars 
at  his  own  wit,  or  at  the  absence  of  it,  knew  how  much 
the  fun  of  a  story  is  increased  by  the  relater  being  ap- 
parently unconscious  of  there  being  anything  to  laugh  at, 
he  would  acquire  such  a  command  over  his  risible  muscles 
as  should  enable  him  to  relate  the  most  side-splitting 
matter  without  a  smile.  The  great  comic  actors  well 
know  the  truth  of  this.  Listen — one  of  the  greatest  I 
ever  saw — was  never.known  to  smile  upon  the  stage.  His 
long,  solemn  face  might  have  become  the  pulpit  as  he  sur- 
veyed his  audience  after  convulsing  them  with  a  display 
of  his  refined  and  exquisite  humor.  He  whose  name  heads 


DR.  DOB  AN.  447 

this  chapter  was  not  only  a  good  story-teller,  but  he  Avas, 
as  my  readers  may  know,  an  admirable  writer.  An 
Irishman  by  birth,  he  possessed  much  of  Irish  fun  and  hu- 
mor. He  was  unceasingly  industrious,  producing  a  vast 
amount  of  literary  work,  always  entertaining  and  instruc- 
tive. Before  he  was  twenty  years  old,  John  Doran,  after- 
wards known  to  his  friends  and  the  world  as  Dr.  Doran, 
was  a  successful  contributor  to  various  periodicals.  Being 
entirely  dependent  on  his  own  exertions,  he  found  that 
some  more  efficient  means  of  support  must  be  secured  than 
those  offered  by  small  literary  successes  ;  he,  therefore, 
eagerly  accepted  the  post  of  private  tutor  in  the  family  of 
Lord  Glenlyon,  afterwards  Duke  of  Athole.  For  several 
years  after  the  completion  of  the  education  of  Lord  Glen- 
lyon, Doran  was  similarly  employed  in  the  family  of 
Mr.  Lascelles,  afterwards  Earl  of  Harcwood.  From  that 
happy  home  he  transferred  himself  to  Blandford,  in  Dor- 
setshire, where  for  a  short  time  he  had  the,  charge  of  Lord 
Portman's  sons.  Overwork  produced  temporary  illness, 
and,  yielding  to  advice,  Doran  went  abroad,  and  spent  the 
following  two  or  three  years  on  the  Continent. 

It  was  during  this  holiday  that  our  traveller  took  a  doc- 
tor's degree — after  passing  a  sharp  examination — in  the 
Faculty  of  Philosophy  at  the  University  of  Marburg,  thus 
acquiring  the  title  by  which  he  was  always  known.  On 
his  return  to  England  in  perfectly  restored  health — having 
not  only  been  blessed  in  that  without  which  all  else  is  noth- 
ing, but  with  a  young  and  pretty  wife  also — the  doctor 
felt  that  the  time  had  arrived  when  he  must  select  a  way 
of  living,  and  resolutely  persevere  in  it.  An  opportunity 
of  church  preferment  was  offered  to  him  by  his  friend 
Lord  Harewood,  but  respectfully  declined,  and  literature, 
in  a  wide  acceptation  of  the  word,  was  fixed  for  his  pursuit. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  follow  my  dear  old  friend 
through  his  early  struggles  and  disappointments  to  his 
final  successes.  Dr.  Doran  was  known  everywhere  as  the 
author  of  many  popular  books  when  I  first  made  his  ac- 
quaintance. There  was  so  much  sympathy  between  us  that 
our  acquaintance  soon  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  intimacy 
into  the  warmest  friendship.  Doran  had  a  great  love  of 


448  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

art,  and,  I  think,  a  desire  that  I  should  paint  a  picture  from 
some  anecdote,  historical  or  other,  in  one  of  his  books.  He 
proposed  several  to  me,  but  they  had  the  fault  of  all  sug- 
gested by  literary  men,  from  Dickens  downwards,  that  of 
needing  the  traditional  balloon  from  the  mouths  of  the 
figures  to  explain  the  action  of  the  piece.  I  found  one  for 
myself,  however,  from  the  book  in  which  Nell  Gwynne 
figures  as  an  orange-girl  at  the  Duke's  Theatre.  She  is 
represented  offering  her  fruit  to  a  boxful  of  gallants,  and 
some  of  her  impudent  wit  with  it.  I  had  the  honor  and 
pleasure  of  finding  one  of  my  old  friend's  books,  "  Mann 
and  Manners  at  the  Court  of  Florence,"  dedicated  to  me. 

But  it  is  with  Doran  socially  that  I  now  desire  to  deal. 
He  was  a  delightful  companion,  as  many  a  day's  walk  with 
him  proved  to  me.  His  stories  were  inexhaustible,  act- 
ors or  singers  often  being  the  subjects.  Doran  had  fre- 
quently witnessed  Rachel's  chief  performances,  and  al- 
ways spoke  enthusiastically  of  her  powers.  Of  that  re- 
markable person  he  used  to  tell  the  following  story. 

According  to  Doran,  Rachel  began  public  life  as  a  child 
street  singer  and  reciter,  and  one  day  he — then  a  very 
young  man — made  one  of  a  crowd  on  a  certain  boulevard 
in  Paris,  who  stood  listening  to  the  wonderful  child.  A 
middle-aged  woman  was  with  the  girl,  her  mother,  evident- 
ly, from  the  easily  traced  resemblance  between  the  two. 
The  woman  played  some  instrument  in  the  way  of  accom- 
paniment to  the  child's  sweet  voice,  and  when  the  per- 
formance was  over  the  girl  went  among  the  crowd  to 
collect  their  pence  in  a  small,  quaintly-shaped  wooden  pail 
which  she  carried  for  the  purpose.  Her  dress  was  ragged, 
but  clean,  consisting  of  a  short  petticoat  covered  by  a  pe- 
lisse common  to  the  time.  Many  years  after  this,  Dr.  Doran 
visited  Paris,  and  found  Rachel  at  the  head  of  her  pro- 
fession, and  a  world's  wonder.  He  made  her  acquaintance, 
and  to  his  great  delight  received  an  invitation  to  a  reunion 
at  her  house.  "And  what  an  assembly  it  was!"  said 
Doran.  "Your  profession,  dear  boy,  represented  by  the 
best  painters  in  Paris — in  short,  some  of  the  best  of  every- 
thing." Rachel  was  sumptuously  attired,  receiving  her 
guests  with  the  simplest  grace — not  a  trace  of  the  theatre. 


DR.  DOBAN.  449 

Soon  after  the  last  arrival  the  great  actress  disappeared, 
to  the  surprise  of  her  guests  ;  and  their  surprise  was  in- 
creased when  a  tall  figure,  unmistakably  that  of  Rachel, 
dressed  in  a  ragged  petticoat  and  wearing  an  old-fashioned 
pelisse,  attended  hy  a  shabby  old  woman  with  a  guitar, 
appeared  in  their  midst.  A  wondering  circle  was  made 
quickly  round  the  strange  couple.  A  few  notes  upon  the 
guitar  by  very  feeble  fingers,  then,  amid  breathless  si- 
ence,  the  tremendous  scene  from  "  Phedre."  "  We  had 
not  recovered  from  the  effects,"  said  Doran,  "  when  Rachel 
produced  the  little  wooden  pail  I  well  remembered,  and 
came  smiling  and  begging  among  us.  I  think  it  was  pret- 
ty well  filled,  when  she  held  it  high,  saying  '  Pour  Us 
pauvres;'  then  she  left  us,  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes 
in  her  former  dress." 

Another  story  occurs  to  me.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  Dr.  Doran,  being  a  sensible  man,  did  not  believe  in 
table-rapping  as  a  spiritual  manifestation,  and  he  had  a 
supreme  contempt  for  all  such  believers.  Among  his  ac- 
quaintance, however,  there  were  three  gentlemen,  great 
friends,  who  to  various  similarities  of  taste  added  a  belief 
in  spirits,  fervent  in  all  three.  One  of  these  gentlemen, 
who  enjoyed  feeble  health  (as  Doran  put  it),  was  a  collec- 
tor of  curios  of  all  kinds — a  few  pictures,  Louis  Quatorze 
clocks  and  snuff-boxes,  Venetian  glass,  oak  cabinets,  an- 
cient armor,  and  the  like.  The  virtuoso's  health  became 
worse  and  worse  till  he  died,  leaving  his  two  spiritual 
friends  executors.  To  soften  as  much  as  possible  the 
grief  of  the  survivors,  the  sick  man  assured  them  that 
though  they  would  shortly  see  the  last  of  his  body,  his 
spirit  would  be  in  constant  communication  with  them,  and 
they  might  depend  on  his  putting  in  an  appearance  either 
through  a  table  or  some  other  medium,  whenever  they 
chose  to  call  upon  him.  What  an  ordinary  being  would 
have  considered  of  greater  value  was  a  substantial  recog- 
nition of  both  his  brother  believers  in  his  will.  To  one  he 
left  certain  clocks  and  snuff-boxes,  to  the  other  some  in- 
different pictures  and  some  oak-work  and  armor. 

"  With  the  ungrateful  inconsistency  common  to  human 
nr.tnre,"  Doran  said,  "he  thought  the  armor  man  was  dis- 


450  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

appointed  that  he  didn't  get  a  clock,  and  the  snuff-box 
legatee  that  a  suit  of  armor  was  not  left  to  him."  Be 
that  as  it  may,  there  is  no  doubt  that  very  soon  after  the 
property  had  been  divided,  he  who  had  inherited  the  armor 
received  a  communication  from  the  dead  telling  him  to  go 
at  once  to  the  other  legatee  and  inform  him  that  a  certain 
snuff-box,  set  with  small  diamonds  and  containing  a  minia- 
ture of  the  Duchesse  de  la  Valliere  in  the  lid,  was  left  to 
him  by  mistake,  the  devisor  fully  intending  it  for  his 
other  friend,  to  whom  the  possessor  in  error  was  desired 
to  resign  it. 

This  story  was  fully  credited,  and  the  command  respect- 
fully obeyed;  so  easily,  indeed,  that  the  "armor  man" 
again  summoned  the  dead,  when,  "from  information  re- 
ceived," it  appeared  another  mistake  had  been  made.  Yet 
another  and  more  valuable  "object"  was  bequeathed  in 
error. 

"It  is  really  strange,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he  of  the 
armor  to  him  of  the  snuff  -  boxes.  "  I  had  a  delightful 
communication  from  our  benefactor  and  friend  last  night, 
and  was  again  assured  that  a  certain  plaque  had  been  left 
to  you  in  error — it  was  intended  for  me." 

"  Did  the  spirit  of  our  departed  friend  tell  you  that  ?" 
was  the  astonished  inquiry. 

"  He  did,"  was  the  reply. 

"But  the  plaque  was  not  left  to  me  at  all;  Brown  got 
that,"  said  he  of  the  snuff-boxes. 

"  Dear,  dear  !"  said  the  armor  man.  "  Then  the  spirit 
must  have  been  the  devil,  and  not  our  friend  at  all." 

"  Suppose  it  must,"  replied  the  other. 

Doran  was  not  only  a  good  story-teller,  but  an  appre-. 
ciative  listener  to  others.  I  cannot  refrain  from  relating 
a  somewhat  personal  incident  that  amused  him,  and  may 
amuse  my  readers.  Two  of  my  children — a  boy  and  a 
girl — when  very  small,  but  just  old  enough  to  be  trusted 
alone  in  the  streets,  were  wandering  in  Kensington  Gar- 
dens Terrace,  and  as  they  walked  slowly  past  the  big 
houses  they  looked  through  the  area  railings  into  the 
kitchens,  and  speculated  upon  the  objects  on  the  various 
spits.  Presently  they  came  to  a  joint  that  puzzled  them. 


DK.  DOEAN.  451 

One  said  it  was  mutton,  the  other  averred  with  much  per- 
sistence that  it  was  beef.  "You  are  both  wrong,"  said 
the  voice  of  the  owner  of  the  house  from  the  dining-room 
window;  "it  is  pork." 

With  the  publication  of  the  two  following  letters,  I  close 
my  recollections  of  Dr.  Doran.  My  remembrance  of  his 
kindness  to  me  on  all  occasions,  my  respect  for  his  talents, 
and  my  love  for  the  man  will  abide  with  me  so  long  as 
"memory  holds  her  seat." 

The  first  letter  relates  to  a  little  party  given  to  celebrate 
the  marriage  of  my  second  daughter  : 


OFFICE, 

"  20  WELLINGTON  STREET,  STRAND,  W.C., 
"  12/A  Auffitst,  1869. 

"DEAR  MRS.  FRITH,  —  While  I  am  sitting  here  waiting  for  proofs  —  but 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  am  not  sitting  here,  but  at  the  printing-office  in  Tooke's 
Court,  just  in  front  of  a  sponging-house  ;  however,  while  I  am  waiting  for 
proofs,  my  thoughts  go  back  to  the  charming  scene  which  your  hospitable 
house  presented  on  Tuesday  night.  I  take  this  opportunity  to  congratu- 
late you  on  its  perfect  success.  That  it  was  thoroughly  successful  in  good 
taste  and  all  the  means  and  appliances  for  enjoyment,  was  the  joyous 
opinion  of  every  one  with  whom  I  came  in  contact  For  my  part,  when  I 
think  of  those  incomparable  bridesmaids,  I  feel  that  the  world  is  not  so 
well  ordered  as  it  might  be,  and  that  it  is  a  pity  we  can't  be  always  young 
and  in  love  forever,  living  also  rent-free,  including  queen's  taxes! 

"  May  the  lives  of  the  two  young  people,  for  whose  sake  all  that  youth, 
beauty,  and  friendship  were  assembled  within  that  Arabian  Nights  sort  of 
tent,  be  as  happy  as  could  be  desired  by  those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest 
to  them  both  !  May  I  add  that  you  may  as  well  let  the  tent  stand  and  keep 
the  lights  ready  ?  for  sisters  follow  sisters,  and  the  inevitable  man  and  the 
hour  will  come. 

"Do  not  think  of  troubling  yourself  to  answer  this.     I  send  it  in  place 
of  the  silent  courtesy  of  a  card,  and  in  acknowledgment  of  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  enjoyable  of  evenings.     With  best  regards  to  Mr.  Frith, 
"  I  am,  dear  Mrs.  Frith,  very  sincerely  yours, 

"J.  DORAN." 

"83  LANSDOWXE  ROAD,  W.,  8/A  July,  1870. 
"  DEAR  MRS.  FRITH,— 

'"Oh,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand  '.' 

is  what  Romeo  said  when  he  wanted  Juliet's  number. 

"I  have  been  mentally  standing  below  your  conservatory  looking  up 
towards  your  imaginary  figure,  and  saying  the  same  words  for  the  same 
purpose. 


452  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  As  Romeo  afterwards  says, 

"  'Oh,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied?' 

I  conclude  Juliet  would  not  give  her  number;  and  I  may  go  on  metaphori- 
cally gazing  up  at  you  in  the  conservatory  with  the  same  result.  So  I  must 
ask  you  to  let  me  acquit  myself  of  my  lost  bet  by  substituting  the  enclosed 
in  place  of  the  fairly  forfeited  pair  of  gloves,  and  to  believe  me,  dear  Mrs. 
Frith,  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  J.  DORAN." 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

MY   LATER   PROFESSIONAL   WORK. 

REVISITING  the  scenes  of  one's  youth  is  always  a  melan- 
choly pleasure,  and  often  no  pleasure  at  all,  but  much  the 
reverse.  In  my  vacation-time  of  1884  I  visited  Harrogate. 
I  experienced  the  "  melancholy  pleasure "  in  the  fullest 
sense,  for  I  found  that  all  the  friends  I  knew  long  ago  had 
joined  the  majority.  My  father's  hotel,  the  Dragon,  in- 
stead of  being,  as  I  remember  it,  filled  with  health  and 
pleasure  seekers,  gay  with  all  the  gayety  of  a  fashionable 
watering-place,  was  deserted  by  all  but  a  care-taker,  closed 
as  an  inn,  windows  broken,  and  desolate.  I  was  allowed 
to  go  over  it,  in  the  charge  of  a  slipshod  girl.  I  revis- 
ited the  little  room  in  which  my  supposed  genius  first 
saw  the  light.  It  was  unaltered,  though  more  than  half  a 
century  had  passed  since  I  made  the  terrible  drawing  of  a 
dog  that  astonished  the  world — of  Harrogate.  On  several 
of  the  window-panes,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  were  names 
of  visitors,  diamond-scratched,  and  dated  a  century  and 
more  ago.  There  were  my  own  and  my  brothers',  in 
childish  writing.  The  ballroom — a  large  and  really  splen- 
did room  when  in  its  right  mind — was  in  the  last  stage  of 
decay,  the  walls  mouldy,  and  the  floor  in  holes.  And  what 
lovely  forms  have  I  not  seen  quadrilling,  waltzing,  and 
minuetting  on  these  boards,  now  so  rotten  !  The  mystery 
of  the  house  being  allowed  to  totter  on  its  poor  last  legs 
in  this  melancholy  fashion  will  soon  be  solved  by  time,  a 
solution  imminent  in  cracked  ceilings  and  partially  fallen 
roof.  I  turned  away  from  "the  home  of  my  childhood" 
a  sadder  if  not  a  wiser  man. 

As  I  approach  the  present  time  I  feel  more  and  more 
reluctant  to  speak  of  myself  and  my  doings.  I  am  thor- 
oughly tired  of  the  first  person  singular,  and  shall  content 


454  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

myself  by  noting  very  shortly  my  professional  work  of 
the  last  few  years.  The  success  of  "Dr.  Johnson  and 
Mrs.  Siddons,"  a  capital  subject,  taken  from  a  passage 
in  Campbell's  life  of  the  great  actress,  was,  however,  un- 
questionable. 

Nollekens'  bust  of  Johnson,  together  with  Reynolds' 
portraits  of  the  great  writer,  supplied  me  with  sufficient 
authority  for  his  likeness,  while  that  of  Mrs.  Siddons  was 
as  easily  derived  from  Gainsborough  and  others.  This 
picture  was  a  favorite  with  those  people  whose  opinion  is 
most  worthy  of  consideration — that  of  my  brother  artists. 
I  had  often  felt  a  desire  to  paint  a  "Statute  Fair,"  and 
after  twice  witnessing  that  held  annually  at  Warwick,  and 
making  many  studies  and  an  elaborate  sketch  for  it,  and 
even  commencing  a  large  picture  of  the  subject,  bad  times 
came  and  frightened  me,  and  the  picture  was  dropped — 
never  to  be  taken  up  again,  I  fear.  Then  my  evil  destiny 
tempted  me  into  the  domain  of  history,  and  nothing  would 
satisfy  me  but  I  must  try  my  hand  at  Cromwell  contem- 
plating the  dead  body  of  Charles  I.  It  is  related  that 
after  that  monarch's  execution  his  body  was  taken  into  a 
gallery  at  Whitehall,  and  watched  there  all  night  by  two 
of  his  friends.  Those  gentlemen  were  sitting  over  the  fire 
in  the  dead  of  night,  when  a  footstep  was  heard  approach- 
ing the  room.  The  door  opened,  and  a  man  entered  muf- 
fled in  a  cloak.  He  approached  the  body,  contemplated 
it  for  some  minutes,  and  then,  muttering  the  words  "Cruel 
necessity,"  left  as  silently  as  he  had  entered,  but  not  be- 
fore he  had  been  recognized  as  Cromwell. 

I  have  to  acknowledge,  then,  that  my  contributions  to 
the  Royal  Academy  show  of  1884  were  of  very  scant  at- 
traction, "  Dr.  Johnson  and  Mrs.  Siddons  "  being  the  only 
one  that,  coming  as  it  did  within  the  scope  of  my  powers, 
proved  successful.  Again  I  plunged  into  history,  and 
planned  a  large  composition  from  an  incident  in  the  life 
of  John  Knox.  It  may  be  remembered  that  one  of  my 
earlier  pictures  represented  "Knox  Reproving  Queen 
Mary."  My  present  venture  showed  that  zealot  reproving 
the  ladies  of  her  court  for  amusing  themselves  by  playing 
at  a  harmless  game.  Knox  had  just  left  the  queen  in  a 


MY    LATER    PROFESSIONAL   WOKK.  455 

passion  of  tears,  caused  by  his  brutal  attacks,  and  in  pass- 
ing through  an  antechamber  —  still  in  existence  —  tilled 
with  courtiers,  pages,  and  ladies,  he  was,  or  pretended  to 
be,  shocked  into  the  use  of  his  usual  strong  language  at 
the  sight  of  "  Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the 
helm." 

Many  of  the  young  students  of  the  present  day  will  per- 
haps be  surprised  to  hear  that  it  was  my  custom,  and  that 
of  my  friends,  to  make  nude  studies  of  all  the  figures  in 
our  pictures  before  we  proceeded  to  clothe  them  ;  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  method  being  a  safeguard,  to  a  great  ex- 
tent, against  disproportion  and  false  action.  I  regret  to 
say  I  have  discontinued  the  practice,  but  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing numbers  of  chalk-studies  for  the  final  oil-sketch  is  still 
de  riyueur  with  me.  In  the  Knox  sketch  I  introduced  the 
figure  of  a  jester  who  stands  by  the  preacher  in  a  mock- 
ing attitude,  as  he  turns  to  admonish  the  young  revellers. 
The  contrast  of  the  color  of  the  jester  with  the  black  fig- 
ure of  the  preacher  was  very  valuable.  But  as  I  worked, 
the  idea  crossed  my  mind  that  there  was  no  record  of  a 
jester  being  at  the  court  of  the  Queen  of  Scots,  nor  could 
I  satisfy  myself  that  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  was  similarly 
distinguished;  but  if  Henry  VIII.  had  his  Will  Somers, 
why  might  not  his  niece  of  Scotland  have  her  jester  also? 
To  what  better  authority  could  I  turn  than  to  Mr.  Froude, 
whose  works  had  given  me  so  much  instruction  and  pleas- 
ure, and  from  whom  I  had  already  gleaned  one  historic 
subject  ?  I  wrote  to  that  distinguished  person,  and  re- 
ceived a  reply  to  the  effect  that  jesters  were  never  known 
north  of  the  Tweed. 

The  result  of  this  letter  was  the  disappearance  of  the 
jester  from  the  picture,  a  red  chair  taking  his  place;  but 
I  allowed  him  to  remain  in  the  first  sketch,  now  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  Flowers,  of  Stratford-on-Avon.  Next 
to  having  a  photograph  of  the  scene  of  Darnley's  murder, 
a  drawing,  taken  on  the  morning  after  the  explosion  at 
Kirk  o'  Field,  lent  to  me  by  Mr.  Froude,  was  most  awe- 
inspiring  by  its  terrible  fidelity.  There  lay  Darnley  as 
the  murderers  had  left  him,  strangled,  the  body  evidently 
undisturbed  to  enable  the  artist  to  do  his  work.  The 


456  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

prince's  page  lay  at  a  little  distance ;  the  fragments  of 
Darnley's  lodging  forming  the  background,  combined  with 
hedges,  and  a  fringe  of  frightened  spectators.  The  origi- 
nal drawing  was  sent  to  England  for  Queen  Elizabeth's 
inspection  immediately  after  the  murder  of  Darnley,  and 
is  now  in  the  Record  Office.  That  lent  to  me  by  Mr. 
Froude  is  an  exact  copy. 

Though  this  drawing  is  not  the  work  of  an  accomplished 
artist,  it  bears  marks  of  authenticity  and  truth-telling,  so 
far  as  the  producer's  powers  enabled  him  to  go ;  it  is  in 
water-colors,  and  it  seems  to  me  to  dispose  altogether  of 
the  theory  of  Darnley's  being  blown  up  by  the  gunpowder 
that  destroyed  the  house,  for  the  body  is  unmutilated  and 
unblackened,  neither  of  which  conditions  could  it  have 
escaped  if  the  death  had  been  caused  by  an  explosive. 
The  unfortunate  prince  had  evidently  heard  the  murderers 
at  woi'k  in  the  room  beneath  his  own;  he  then  endeavored 
to  escape,  and  was  killed  in  the  attempt. 

Of  course  the  study  of  the  locality  in  which  the  scene 
selected  for  my  picture  occurred  entailed  the  necessity  of 
a  journey  to  Holyrood.  There  I  found  the  large  anteroom 
in  which  the  queen's  Marys  and  their  friends  talked  and 
worked,  danced  and  trifled;  and  that  terrible  little  inner 
chamber,  now  so  "  worn  upon  the  edge  of  time,"  where 
the  queen,  sitting  at  supper  with  Rizzio,  was  startled  by 
the  white  face  of  Ruthven,  newly  risen  from  his  sick-bed, 
armed,  though  too  weak  to  stand  upright  in  armor,  head- 
ing the  furious  band  bent  on  the  death  of  the  Italian 
favorite.  The  room  is  little  bigger  than  a  cupboard ;  how 
easy  to  realize  the  struggle — the  supper-table  overthrown, 
the  attendant  lady  screaming  for  assistance,  the  terrified 
musician  clinging  to  his  royal  mistress,  while  he  receives 
stab  after  stab  from  the  daggers  of  his  murderers  !  The 
body  was  dragged  across  the  antechamber  and  left  bleed- 
ing in  a  room  beyond — blood-stains,  or  what  pass  for  such, 
remaining  on  the  floor  to  this  day. 

A  story  is  told  of  a  traveller  for  a  firm — which  dealt, 
among  other  things,  in  a  composition  famous  for  its  power 
of  removing  stains  of  any  sort  from  all  kinds  of  materials 
— who,  in  the  temporary  absence  of  the  then  custodian  of 


MY   LATER   PROFESSIONAL    WORK.  457 

Holyrood,  applied  bis  stain-remover  to  Rizzio's  blood. 
He  was  discovered  on  his  knees  by  the  indignant  guardian, 
vigorously  rubbing  the  floor.  His  panacea  failed — either 
from  his  being  too  soon  disturbed  in  the  application  of  it, 
or  from  the  fact  that  the  stain  was  too  deep  to  be  affected. 
The  man  was  expelled  from  the  palace,  and  Rizzio's  blood 
still  remains  one  of  the  most  attractive  sights  for  tourists. 
My  first  acquaintance  with  this  incident  arose  from  a 
sketch  which  a  young  artist  brought  to  me  for  my  advice 
as  to  whether  or  not  it  was  worthy  of  being  made  into 
a  larger  picture.  The  firm's  traveller  was  depicted,  as  I 
have  described  him,  scouring  the  floor,  or  rather  inter- 
rupted in  his  work  by  an  old  lady,  who — according  to  my 
artist  friend — was  many  years  ago  in  sole  charge  of  Holy- 
rood.  She  was  represented  in  a  great  passion.  I  think  I 
advised  the  artist  to  inquire  further  into  the  truth  of  the 
story  before  he  gave  it  permanent  form  as  a  large  picture. 
20 


CHAPTER  XLYII. 

A    STRANGE    PURCHASE. 

IF  the  "  Bond  Street  lounger "  of  fifty  years  ago  could 
revisit  that  street  he  would  scarcely  recognize  the  scene 
of  his  youth.  I  can  well  remember  it,  and  I  think  I  can 
safely  assert  that  there  was  not  a  picture-shop  in  the 
whole  length  of  it.  Now  they  are  to  be  counted  by 
scores,  to  say  nothing  of  the  galleries  that  abound.  As  a 
rule,  the  magnates  of  the  trade  do  not  expose  their  treas- 
ures to  the  gaze  of  the  passer-by ;  and  in  the  exceptional 
instances  when  a  shop  is  permitted  to  display  a  tolerable 
specimen  of  art  in  its  window,  there  is  sure  to  be  a  gallery 
behind,  in  which  purchasers  will  often  find  works  by  the 
best  masters  of  the  English  and  foreign  schools.  A  pict- 
ure-dealer, whom  I  shall  call  Stokes,  was  a  few  years  ago 
the  proprietor  of  a  large  shop  with  a  gallery  at  the  rear  of 
it.  The  period  was  August,  the  season  was  over,  and  bus- 
iness as  well.  Mr.  Stokes  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  town 
for  his  usual  holiday,  when  a  man  entered  the  shop  and 
asked  if  he  could  speak  to  Mr.  Stokes. 

"  You  can,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  am  Mr.  Stokes.  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

Judging  from  the  visitor's  appearance,  there  seemed  no 
chance  of  a  revival  of  business  by  anything  that  could  be 
done  for  him.  He  was  palpably  of  the  Jewish  persuasion, 
and  his  dress  had  evidently  been  worn  for  years. 

"  You  buy  pictures  ?"  said  the  Israelite,  looking  about 
him. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  if  they  are  the  right  sort." 

"Well,  now,  if  I-  was  to  put  you  up  to  a  picture  by 
Gainsborough,  what  would  you  stand  ?" 

"  A  picture  by  Gainsborough  ?"  said  the  dealer.  "  What 
sort  of  a  picture  ?" 


A   STRANGE    PUBCHASE.  459 

"Beautiful — size  of  life — lovely  woman." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  got  such  a  pict- 
ure ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  to  say  I  have ;  but  some  friends  of 
mine  have,  and  I  can  put  you  up  to  it  if  you  will  make  it 
worth  my  while." 

"  An  original  by  Gainsborough,"  murmured  Mr.  Stokes ; 
"  a  whole  length  of  a  lovely  woman.  Well,  you  can  show 
it  to  me,  and  if  I  buy  it  I  will  give  you  five-and-twenty 
pounds." 

"  Done  with  you,"  said  the  man.  "  I  have  a  cab  at  the 
door;  jump  in  with  me,  and  I'll  take  you  to  the  picture." 

"  Why,  where  on  earth  are  we  going  to  ?"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Stokes,  as  the  cab  entered  the  back  slums  of  Seven 
Dials. 

"It's  all  right,  governor;  we  shall  be  there  directly. 
You  are  all  right.  I'll  pay  the  cab." 

And  almost  as  the  man  spoke  the  cab  drew  up  at  a  small 
shop.  The  picture-dealer  had  time  to  notice  that  the  es- 
tablishment was  one  for  the  sale  of  imitation  antique  fur- 
niture and  common  bric-d-brac  as  he  passed  through  the 
shop  and  followed  his  guide  up  some  rickety  stairs  to  a 
room  above,  where  a  strange  sight  awaited  him.  On  a 
sideboard  of  exquisite  irorkmanship  masses  of  silver-plate 
and  china  were  piled,  it  required  but  one  glance  of  his 
experienced  eye  to  recognize  the  originality  of  the  antique 
silver  and  the  value  of  the  china.  There  were  pieces  of 
rare  tapestry  nailed  tentatively  against  the  wall,  and,  to 
crown  all,  a  magnificent  Gainsborough,  which,  as  Stokes 
expressed  it  to  me,  "  seemed  to  lighten  up  the  whole  place." 

The  first  thought  that  passed  into  my  friend's  mind  was 
that  he  had  fallen  among  thieves,  and  that  he  must  assure 
himself  that  the  picture  had  been  honestly  come  by  before 
he  could  venture  to  make  an  offer  for  it.  He  must  be 
cautious,  also,  not  to  display  too  much  eagerness  to  pos- 
sess it,  or  the  price  might  be  made  prohibitive.  At  a  ta- 
ble in  the  middle  of  the  room  sat  an  old  man  of  repulsive 
aspect,  with  a  long  gray  beard.  Close  to  his  hand  was  a 
catalogue. 

"  I  conclude,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  that  at  once 


460  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

betrayed  his  Jewish  antecedents,  "that  I  have  the  honor 
of  speaking  to  the  celebrated  Mr.  Stokes." 

"  I  have  come  here  at  the  request  of  this  per — this  gen- 
tleman to  see  a  Gainsborough.  Is  that  the  picture  ?" 

"  That  is  the  picture,  and  I  need  not  tell  so  good  a  judge 
as  Mr.  Stokes  that  it  is — " 

"  Well,  allow  me  to  ask  where  you  got  it,  and  all  about 
it,  before  we  talk  about  what  you  want  for  it,  because  you 
see—" 

"I  understand,"  interrupted  the  Jew  in  his  turn;  "you 
think  we  stole  it  —  don't  you  now?"  smiling  as  he  made 
the  remark.  "  And  when  I  tell  you  there  is  a  gang  of  five 
of  us  in  it  you  will  be  sure  we  did — won't  you  now  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Stokes ;  "  but,  as  a  prudent  man, 
I  must  be  careful  that  nobody  can  have  a  claim  on  what- 
ever I  buy  after  I  have  paid  for  it ;  and  you  must  admit 
this  is  not  exactly  the  locality  in  which  one  would  expect 
to  see  a  Gainsborough  —  if  it  is  a  Gainsborough  —  and, 
whether  it  is  or  not,  times  are  so  bad  that,  unless  it  can  be 
had  very  reasonably,  and  a  clean  bill  of  health  with  it,  I 
don't  care  about  it." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,  sir ;  I  don't  blame  you  ;  far  from  it. 
If  you  will  just  look  over  this  catalogue  you  will  see  for 
yourself  —  here  you  are  —  effects^plate,  china,  tapestry, 
furniture,  horses,  carriages,  noble  family,  Buckingham- 
shire. There  is  some  of  the  plate  " — pointing  to  the  side- 
board— "tapestry  and  pictures;  some  more  there  in  the 
corner,  with  their  backs  to  you ;  not  in  your  way,  old  fam- 
ily portraits ;  not  good,  any  of  'em.  I  went  to  the  castle 
myself;  nobody  there  ;  things  given  away,  sir — literally 
given  away.  And  look  here — here  it  is — I  bought  that 
splendid  Gainsborough  for  six  guineas  !" 

Mr.  Stokes  told  me  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes 
when  he  saw  the  confirmation  of  the  man's  story. 

"  What  do  you  want  for  it  ?" 

"Well,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  smiling,  "I  told  you 
there  were  five  of  'us  in  it,  and  we  want  thirty  pounds 
apiece;  five  thirties  is  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

Now,  said  Stokes  to  himself,  be  not  too  eager;  above 
all,  do  not  go  away  without  the  picture. 


A   STRANGE    PURCHASE.  461 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  seems  a  good  deal ;  a  good- 
ish  profit  that  for  a  six-pound  investment.  It's  a  big  pict- 
ure, and  size  is  always  against  the  selling  of  a  thing. 
Well,  I  don't  know,  I  suppose  I  must  risk  it;  will  you 
take  my  check  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  man. 

"All  right,"  said  Stokes;  "got  pen  and  ink  handy? 
But  how,"  said  Stokes,  pausing,  pen  in  hand,  "  am  I  to  get 
it  home  ?  Seems  a  good  deal  of  money.  Could  you  get 
me  a  van,  or  a  light  cart,  or  something,  so  that  I  could  see 
to  it  myself  ?" 

"  You  shall  have  one  at  the  door  in  ten  minutes,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  When  I  stood  that  Gainsborough  up  in  the  splendid 
light  in  my  gallery,  Mr.  Frith  (you  know  the  picture), 
you  may  imagine  how  pleased  I  was.  It  was  my  dinner- 
time, and  I  treated  myself  to  an  extra  glass  of  sherry  to 
celebrate  my  purchase.  Just  as  I  had  finished  my  dinner 

my  man  Smith  came  up  to  me  and  told  me  that  Lord 

was  in  the  gallery,  and  wanted  to  speak  to  me.  Lord 

is  an  old  customer  of  mine.  Down  I  went,  and  found  him 
absorbed  in  the  Gainsborough. 

"  '  A  new  purchase  this,  Mr.  Stokes  ?' 

"'Yes,  my  lord;  it  hasn't  been  in  the  place  an  hour.' 

" '  Gainsborough,  of  course,'  said  his  lordship. 

"  'Yes,  my  lord,  and  one  of  the  finest  in  England.' 

"  'Am  I  right  in  supposing  the  picture  is  for  sale?  if  so, 
what  is  the  price  ?' 

" '  A  thousand  guineas,  my  lord.' 

"'I  will  take  it;  and  will  you  have  the  frame  regilt? 
and  if  you  think  a  little  cleaning  or  varnishing  desirable, 
I  know  I  can  trust  you  to  see  to  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
leave  town  this  evening.  You  will  be  so  good  as  to  let  me 
know  when  the  picture  can  be  sent  to  Eaton  Place.'" 

Lord  -  -  went  to  his  country-house,  where  he  was  at- 
tacked by  fever,  and  died  in  a  few  days.  The  frame  of 
the  Gainsborough  was  regilt,  and  the  picture  varnished, 
when  so  much  additional  splendor  was  developed  as  to 
cause  Mr.  Stokes  many  pangs  of  regret  at  its  precipitate 
sale.  Though  Lord  —  —  had  died,  his  executors  were,  of 


462  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

course,  responsible  for  the  purchase  of  the  picture,  and 
Mr.  Stokes  was  on  the  point  of  writing  to  offer  them  a 
release  from  the  engagement  when  he  received  a  letter  in- 
forming him  that  Lord had  made  his  purchase  known 

to  several  persons  before  his  death,  and  his  executors  fully 
acknowledged  their  liability;  but  they  were  instructed  to 
express  a  hope  that,  under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Stokes 
would  not  press  the  purchase  upon  them,  in  consideration 
of  the  many  satisfactory  business  transactions  that  had 

passed  between  him  and  Lord in  times  past.  To  this 

letter  Mr.  Stokes  replied  by  return  of  post.  And,  after 
expressing  great  (and  I  am  sure  real)  regret  at  the  un- 
timely death  of  his  patron,  he  hoped  he  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  insist  on  the  fulfilment  of  a  contract  under 
such  melancholy  circumstances,  etc.  To  this  came  a  reply 

to  the  effect  that  Lord 's  family  fully  appreciated  Mr. 

Stokes's  ready  consent  to  their  wishes,  and  the  greatest 
compliment  they  could  pay  his  conduct  on  this  occasion 
was -to  describe  it  as  worthy  of  Mr.  Stokes. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Stokes,  "  anybody  who  takes  a  fancy 
to  my  Gainsborough  will  not  get  it  for  a  thousand  guineas, 
nor  anything  like  it." 

The  beautiful  lady  had  displayed  her  charms  in  my 
friend's  gallery  but  a  few  days  when  she  was  discovered 
by  a  well-known  noble  collector,  a  real  lover  of  art,  but  a 
rough  one. 

"  Hullo,  Stokes  !  what  have  you  got  there  ?" 

"I  need  not  tell  your  grace;  you  know  well  enough." 

"  Gainsborough,  ain't  it  ?  Not  such  a  bad  one.  What 
have  you  the  impudence  to  ask  for  it  ?" 

"Three  thousand  guineas." 

"Rubbish!" 

"  No,  your  grace,  three  thousand  guineas  /"  (emphasis 
on  guineas). 

"I  wish  you  may  get  it." 

"  So  do  I,  your  grace ;  and  if  I  don't,  I  intend  to  keep 
the  picture." 

"  Well,  what's  new  ?  What  else  have  you  to  show 
me?" 

Though  the  picture-dealer  produced  several  treasures 


A   STRANGE    PURCHASE.  463 

for  the  duke's  inspection,  he  found  his  noble  patron  gave 
them  but  a  wandering  attention,  ever  and  anon  casting 
longing  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  lovely  Gainsborough. 
Stokes  felt  that  the  blow  had  struck  deep,  and  that  he 
must  play  a  waiting  game. 

"  Now  you  don't  really  suppose  that  there  is  a  fool  in 
the  world  big  enough  to  pay  such  an  unconscionable  sum 
as  that  you  ask  for  the  Gainsborough — do  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  I  am  not  fool  enough  to  sell  it  for 
less." 

"  Suppose  me  such  an  idiot — only  suppose,  mind — as  to 
offer  you  two  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  for  it,  what 
then  ?" 

"  Why  then,  your  grace,  I  should  decline  to  take  it." 

"  Hum — ah — let  me  see — did  you  get  me  that  proof  of 
'  Nelly  O'Brien '  that  was  sold  the  other  day  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  grace  ;  here  it  is,  and  a  splendid  impression 
indeed." 

"  So  it  is  ;  much  obliged  to  you.  Well,  I  must  be  off. 
Cold  August,  isn't  it  ?  Did  you  get  the  grouse  I  sent  you  ? 
All  right — no  thanks.  Fact  is,  we  killed  such  a  lot,  didn't 
know  who  to  send  'em  to."  The  shop-door  was  now  very 
near,  when  the  duke  said  :  "  That  infernal  picture  has 
fascinated  me.  I  will  give  you  three  thousand  pounds 
for  it." 

"  No,  your  grace ;  you  must  excuse  me.  If  you  or  any 
one  else  were  to  offer  me  three  thousand  one  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds,  I  should  refuse  it.  My  price  is  three  thou- 
sand guineas,  and  I  will  never  take  one  farthing  less." 

"  Well,  of  all  the  unconscionable — I  know  I  am  a  fool 
— but — well — send  her  home  !" 

A  few  years  ago  the  lovely  Gainsborough  was  exhibited 
in  the  Winter  Exhibition  of  Old  Masters,  at  Burlington 
House,  and  greatly  admired  by  numbers  who  would  have 
been  as  much  surprised  as  I  was,  if  they  could  have  heard 
this  true  story  of  a  "  Strange  Purchase." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE     CRAZY     ABTIST. 

FROM  time  immemorial  famous  artists  have,  on  conven- 
ient occasions,  given  willing  counsel  to  their  younger  and 
less -known  brethren  in  the  conduct  of  their  pictures. 
Lawrence,  Reynolds,  West,  and  many  others  frequently 
devoted  a  morning  hoifr  to  receive  students,  whose  draw- 
ings, sketches,  or  pictures  were  discussed,  changes  recom- 
mended, and  suggestions  made.  The  practice  obtains  to 
some  extent  in  the  present  day ;  and  another  has  arisen, 
less  commendable,  namely,  a  habit  of  submitting  pict- 
ures to  academicians,  pointedly  to  those  who  happen  to 
be  members  of  the  hanging  committee,  a  few  days  before 
"  sending-in-day."  The  avowed  object,  that  of  seeking 
advice,  may  be  doubted,  because  no  time  is  left  to  take 
advantage  of  it ;  and  an  answer  to  the  inevitable  question, 
"  Do  you  think  my  picture  will  be  accepted  ?"  is  embar- 
rassing in  the  extreme ;  peculiarly  so  if  addressed  to  him 
who  may  be  one  of  the  temporary  judges  in  the  matter. 

The  annals  of  the  Royal  Academy  might  disclose  strange 
stories  of  pictures  being  rejected  twice,  and  even  thrice, 
and  accepted  at  last.  I  may  record  an  instance  that  oc- 
curred in  my  own  early  experience.  I  formed  one  of  the 
council  in  1854,  when  a  life-size  portrait  of  Thomas  Car- 
lyle  came  before  us ;  the  picture  seemed  to  me  to  possess 
considerable  merit,  and  I  was  surprised  at  its  immediate 
rejection.  In  the  following  year  the  same  picture  was 
presented,  and  apparently  unrecognized  by  those  who  had 
previously  rejected  it;  this  time  it  was  marked  "doubt- 
ful," but  it  was  not  hung.  My  two  years'  service  in 
council  being  over,  I  knew  nothing  of  the  fate  of  any 
picture  till  the  opening  of  the  exhibition.  My  surprise 
may  be  imagined  when  I  saw  the  twice  unsuccessful  por- 


THE    CEAZY   ARTIST.  465 

trait  in  one  of  the  principal  places  on  the  walls  in  Trafal- 
gar Square.  I  have  since  seen  the  artist,  and  he  assured 
me  that  the  picture  was  never  retouched  between  the  time 
of  its  first  rejection  and  its  ultimate  success.  The  stran- 
gest of  all  the  strange  experiences  of  my  artistic  career  oc- 
curred to  me  some  time  ago. 

A  few  weeks  before  "  sending-in  day  "  I  received  a  let- 
ter from  a  stranger  with  the  usual  request  that  I  would 
give  my  opinion  on  some  pictures  intended  for  Burlington 
House.  I  consented,  little  dreaming  of  what  I  was  about 
to  bring  upon  myself.  The  would-be  exhibitor  arrived 
punctually  at  the  time  named,  bringing  three  pictures 
carefully  covered  up.  He  was  a  tall,  pale,  melancholy- 
looking  young  man,  and  he  prefaced  the  sight  of  his  pict- 
ures by  telling  me  that  he  had  passed  twenty-five  years  in 
severe  study  of  art  (this  staggered  me,  as  he  looked  scarce- 
ly twenty-five),  that  he  had  frequently  attempted  to  ex- 
hibit his  works  at  different  galleries,  but,  from  some  ex- 
traordinary malign  influence,they  were  invariably  rejected ; 
and  he  would  be  extremely  grateful  to  me  if  I  would  tell 
him  candidly  if  the  fault  rested  with  his  pictures,  or  with 
those  who  could  not,  or  would  not,  see  their  merits.  In 
reply  to  my  request  for  a  sight  of  his  work,  he  placed  some- 
thing upon  my  easel  that  only  required  a  glance  to  con- 
vince me  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  madman.  I  con- 
fess to  a  sensation  of  fear.  What  the  artist  called  a  pict- 
ure was  a  piece  of  canvas  about  three  feet  long  by  two 
feet  wide,  covered  with  oblong  and  irregular  blocks  of 
thick  black  and  yellow  paint,  smeared  over  here  and  there 
by  a  grayish-looking  yellow  mess  like  gooseberry-fool. 
When  I  could  speak,  I  said  : 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"That  picture,"  said  the  young  man,  "is  'A  Reminis- 
cence of  Kamschatka.' " 

"  Have  you  ever  been  there  ?"  said  I,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Never,"  was  the  reply. 

'*  Well,  then,  how  can  it  be  a  reminis — " 

"  Oh,"  he  interrupted,  "  it  is  not  finished;  it  is  quite  wet. 
Here,  you  can  feel  for  yourself;  the  paint  is  not  dry. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  touching  the  picture;  you  won't  hurt 
20* 


466  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

it."  I  did  not  dare  to  refuse,  so  I  put  my  finger  into  one 
of  the  black  blocks,  and  found  it  wet  enough.  "  Do  you 
think  when  it  is  finished  that  the  Academy  will  accept  it?" 
inquired  my  visitor. 

"I  really  cannot  give  an  opinion;  the  committee  is  so 
uncertain  in  its  decisions." 

How  on  earth  shall  I  get  rid  of  this  poor  fellow  ?  was 
my  constant  thought  during  this  painful  interview. 

"  The  subject  is  quite  new,"  said  the  artist ;  "  the  coun- 
try unexplored  by  the  wielder  of  the  pencil.  You  will, 
perhaps,  permit  me  to  show  you  my  second  attempt." 

I  assented  ;  "  Kamschatka "  was  removed,  to  be  suc- 
ceeded by  a  larger  canvas,  in  form  upright,  looking  pre- 
cisely like  "  Kamschatka  "  turned  the  other  way.  A  broad 
streak  of  vermilion  with  a  black  dab  at  the  top  of  it,  ex- 
actly in  the  middle  of  similar  black  and  yellow  blocks 
smeared  as  before  with  gooseberry-fool ;  no  attempt  at 
representing  a  building,  or  a  tree,  or,  in  short,  anything 
in  heaven  above  or  the  earth  beneath.  Again  my  question  : 

"What  is  it?" 

"  That  represents  'Moses  descending  from  Mount  Sinai 
with  the  Tables  of  the  Law.'  " 

"  Where  is  Moses  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Where  !"  in  rather  a  loud  voice  ;  "  why,"  pointing  to 
the  smear  of  vermilion,  "  there,  sir !  surely  he  cannot  be 
mistaken." 

"  But  I  cannot  see  the  tables,"  I  pleaded. 

"  How  can  anybody  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen  ?"  said 
the  artist.  "Moses  holds  the  tables  in  front  of  him  as  he 
addresses  the  Israelites.  His  back  is  towards  us;  how 
then  could  you  by  any  possibility  see  what  he  carries  be- 
fore him  ?" 

"Very  true  indeed,"  said  I;  "and,"  pointing  to  black 
masses  of  dirty  paint,  "  those  are  the  Israelites." 

"  Oh,  oh,  you  can  see  the  Israelites  then  !"  in  a  mocking 
tone  ;  "  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  And  there  is  the  mountain,"  said  I,  making  another 
guess. 

"No,  sir ;  that  is  an  attempt  to  reproduce  the  cloudless 
sky  of— of— Egypt.  Was  it  ?  I  forget," 


THE    CRAZY    ARTIST.  467 

"  But  you  have  made  your  sky  rather  yellow,  haven't 
you?" 

"  Yellow  !  no  ;  blue,  sir,  blue  !  How  is  it  possible  you 
can  call  it  yellow  ?  the  ultramarine  used  on  that  sky  cost 
me  five  pounds." 

As  I  found  nothing  more  to  say  about  the  "Moses,"  I 
asked  for  the  next  and  last  specimen,  and  was  somewhat 
relieved  to  find,  when  it  was  placed  on  the  easel,  that 
there  was  a  circular  form,  about  the  size  of  a  shilling, 
doing  duty  for  the  moon,  with  a  dirty  streak  across  it, 
made  of  some  gray  mess  evidently  intended  for  a  cloud. 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  the  moon  —  a  moonlight  scene,  is  it 
not  ?" 

"  Yes,  shipwreck  by  moonlight,"  said  the  painter. 

Again  the  black  and  yellow  blocks  covered  the  canvas 
— precisely  like  those  in  the  reminiscences  of  Kamschatka, 
Mount  Sinai,  and  the  Israelites — forming  a  rather  larger 
and  more  jumbled-together  mass  in  front. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  I,  pointing  to  the  foreground. 

"These  are  the  rocks  on  which,  as  you  see,  the  ill-fated 
vessel  is  driving,  and  unless  the  wind  changes  she  must  be 
wrecked.  Really,  sir,  you  must  excuse  me,  but  I  fear  your 
eyesight  must  be  failing !" 

"  Well,"  said  I,  peering  through  my  spectacles,  "it  is 
not  so  good  as  it  was;  and  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see 
the  ship." 

"  You  can't  see  the  ship  !"  in  a  loud  tone,  in  which 
astonishment  and  pity  for  my  blindness  were  mingled. 
"  Why,  there  is  the  ship  plain  enough  !"  pointing  to  some 
of  the  black  and  yellow  shapes,  which  were  as  unlike  a 
ship  as  they  were  to  anything  else. 

The  picture  was  then  removed  and  packed,  together 
with  the  others.  As  that  operation  was  proceeding,  and 
I  was  almost  praying  for  the  poor  fellow  to  go,  he  said, 
suddenly, 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  Mr. ?"  naming  an  old 

friend  and  academic  colleague  of  mine. 

"  Very  well  indeed,"  said  I. 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  like  to  see  my  pictures  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  eagerly  seizing  the  chance  of  getting  rid 


468  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

of  my  crazy  visitor,  who  now  seemed  very  eager  to  go  ; 
"  I  am  sure  he  would.  There,"  said  I,  as  with  trembling 
fingers  I  wrote  my  colleague's  address,  "  that  is  where  he 
lives  ;  but  you  must  be  quick  or  you  won't  find  him  at 
home ;"  and  the  artist  disappeared,  to  my  infinite  relief. 

In  a  few  hours  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr. ,  in 

which  he  upbraided  me  in  strong  language.  Among  the 
rest  he  said : 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  sending  a  maniac  to 
me  ?  I  owe  you  one  for  this  !  The  man  frightened  me, 
and  I  got  him  to  bring  his  mad  things  as  near  the  fire  as 
possible,  that  I  might  be  within  easy  reach  of  the  poker  !" 

The  poor  artist's  works  were  sent  to  Burlington  House, 
and  I  received  a  well-expressed  note  from  him,  telling  me 
of  their  fate. 

"  I  cannot  understand  the  rejection  of  these  works,"  he 
said;  "and  I  am  much  hurt  by  it." 

My  principal  contribution  to  the  Exhibition  of  1&85 
was  the  elaborate  composition  called  "Knox  at  Holy- 
rood,"  supplemented  by  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Alfred  Pope, 
the  wife  of  the  owner  of  my  picture  of  "The  Private 
View." 

I  am  filled  with  astonishment,  not  unmixed  with  envy, 
when  I  hear  from  one  of  my  most  distinguished  colleagues 
that  his  pictures — containing  numbers  of  figures  in  medue- 
val  costumes  —  are  painted  without  models,  either  for  hu- 
man beings  or  accessories. 

I  should  scarcely  be  believed  if  I  were  to  sum  up  the 
outlay  for  dresses,  models,  etc.,  necessary  for  me  to  incur, 
before  such  a  work  as  "  Knox  "  could  be  executed.  As  an 
example,  I  may  mention  that  I  found  it  requisite  to  have 
the  large  brass  lamp  with  many  branches,  that  hangs 
above  the  figures,  made  on  purpose  for  my  picture;  elab- 
orate brocades  had  to  be  acquired  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
jerkins,  silk  hose,  and  such  like,  made  to  fit  the  models. 
Fuseli  used  to  say  that  "  nature  put  him  out ;"  and  Ma- 
clise  seldom,  if  ever,  used  models.  Let  the  student  take 
note  by  the  example  of  these  men  of  the  fatal  effects  of 
"  painting  without  nature." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

JOHN   LEECH. 

MY  acquaintance  with  John  Leech —  which  ripened  af- 
ter\vards  into  warm  friendship  —  began  more  than  forty 
years  ago  in  the  studio  of  Mrs.  Mclan.  Old  playgoers  will 
remember  Mr.  Mclan  as  an  actor  and  painter  ;  and  old 
painters  may  have  seen  many  pictures  by  his  clever  wife, 
who,  on  the  morning  of  my  call  upon  her,  was  giving 
Leech  some  of  his  first  lessons  in  oil-painting.  I  was  in- 
troduced to  the  handsome  young  fellow,  whose  name  was 
familiar  to  me  as  the  author  of  some  drawings  in  a  new 
comic  paper  called  Punch,  and  I  watched  his  efforts, 
which  seemed  promising  enough,  with  interest.  Mrs. 
Mclan  appeared  to  think  that  Leech  would  soon  cease  to 
ornament  Punch,  indeed,  she  doubted,  as  did  many  others, 
that  Punch  would  succeed  long  in  attracting  the  public ; 
and  I  joined  her  in  the  hope  that  her  young  friend  would 
persevere  in  mastering  the  difficulty  of  the  technicali- 
ties of  oil-painting,  and  so  place  himself  among  the  best 
painters  of  the  country.  She  was  in  the  wrong  as  to  the 
prospects  of  Punch,  and  I  think  she  was  also  wrong  in 
thinking  Leech  would  ever  have  succeeded  in  painting 
well.  He  lacked  the  disposition  to  continuous,  steady, 
mechanical  industry,  necessary  for  success.  I  have  often 
heard  him  ridicule  the  care  spent  on  details  in  pictures. 
Finish,  in  his  opinion,  was  so  much  waste  of  time. 
"  When  you  can  see  what  a  man  means  to  convey  in  his 
picture,  in  whatever  way  he  does  it,  you  have  got  all  he 
wants,  and  all  you  ought  to  desire ;  all  work  after  that  is 
thrown  away."  These  were  his  words,  as  well  as  I  can  re- 
member them.  He  was,  however,  very  desirous  to  be  able 
to  paint  his  ideas,  as  his  efforts,  fitful  and  uncertain,  con- 
stantly proved.  Many  an  hour  did  he  spend  in  watching 


470  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

my  own  attempts  to  paint ;  and  I  remember  on  one  occa- 
sion, as  I  was  finishing  a  rather  elaborate  chandelier,  he 
said: 

"Ah, my  Frith!  I  wasn't  created  to  do  that  sort  of 
work;  I  could  never  muster  up  patience  for  it." 

After  all,  I  think  we  may  admit  that  Leech's  want  of 
success  as  a  painter  was,  in  a  sense,  a  blessing  in  disguise. 
The  carrying-out  of  his  subjects  into  pictures  —  from  the 
time  necessary  for  their  proper  production — would  have 
deprived  us,  perhaps,  of  numbers  of  immortal  sketches; 
and  though  undoubtedly  he  "left  off  where  difficulties 
begin  " — as  I  once  heard  a  painter,  who  was  exasperated 
at  Leech's  sneers  at  his  manipulation,  say  to  him  —  he  has 
left  work  behind  him. which  will  continue  to  delight  gen- 
eration after  generation,  so  long  as  wit,  humor,  character, 
and  beauty  are  appreciated — that  is  to  say,  as  long  as  hu- 
man nature  endures. 

It  is  a  melancholy  task  to  me  to  try  to  recall  the  social 
scenes  in  which  Leech  so  often  figured;  sad  to  think  how 
few  of  his  friends,  more  intimate  with  him  than  I,  remain. 
Though  Leech  very  rarely  illustrated  any  ideas  but  his 
own,  I  can  recall  an  instance  or  two  to  the  contrary;  and 
still  oftener  have  I  seen,  by  the  sparkle  of  his  eye,  that 
something  in  the  passing  conversation  had  suggested  a 
"cut."  As  example:  at  Egg's  one  night  we  were  talking 
of  the  difficulty  that  the  pronunciation  of  certain  words 
would  present  to  one  who  had  dined  too  freely.  I  said, 
after  different  long  words  had  been  proposed,  that  I 
thought  antediluvian  topics,  in  which  such  names  as  Ich- 
thyosaurus and  Plesiosaurus  might  occur,  would  puzzle  a 
tipsy  man  a  good  deal.  In  the  following  week  Leech 
gave  us  his  idea  of  the  appearance  of  a  young  gentleman 
who  had  rashly  ventured  on  such  difficult  ground.  I  am 
not  sure,  but  I  think  it  was  Dickens  who  said  that  a  big 
cock  pheasant,  rising  under  one's  nose,  was  like  a  firework 
let  off  in  a  similar  locality.  All  the  world  has  seen  Mr. 
Briggs  and  the  immortal  firework.  When  cards,  or  some 
other  way  of  getting  rid  of  time  after  dinner,  have  been 
proposed,  I  have  heard  Leech  say:  "  Oh,  bother  cards  ! 
let  us  have  conversation."  And  talk  it  was — good  talk 


JOHN    LEECH.  471 

enough  often — but  Leech  was  more  a  listener  than  a  par- 
taker ;  not  that  he  could  not  talk,  and  admirably,  but  he  was 
of  the  nervous,  melancholy  temperament,  so  common  to  men 
who  possess  wit  and  humor  to  a  high  degree.  His  songs 
were  melancholy  and  very  difficult  to  get  from  him.  In- 
deed, the  only  one  I  can  remember — and  that  only  partial- 
ly— was  something  about  "  King  Death,"  with  allusions  to 
a  beverage  called  "  coal-black  wine,"  which  that  poten- 
tate was  supposed  to  drink.  I  can  see  the  dear  fellow's 
handsome,  melancholy  face,  with  his  eyes  cast  up  to  the 
ceiling,  where  Dickens  said  the  :  o  ig  was  written  in  ghost, 
ly  print,  which  only  Leech  could  read. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  Leech's  practice,  he  very 
seldom  made  sketches  from  nature.  He  told  me  that  he 
could  count  upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand  all  the  drawings 
he  had  made  from  natural  objects.  In  his  work  he  trusted 
entirely  to  memory  and  imagination.  There  is  an  admi- 
rable cut  in  Punch  of  a  young  lady  who  has  been  bathing 
at  Ramsgate  with  her  aunt,  whose  attention  she  is  direct- 
ing to  two  stuffed,  life-sized  figures,  representing  soldiers, 
which  used  to  stand  on  the  sands  as  marks  for  archers. 
The  aunt  is  short-sighted,  and  the  girl  is  wickedly  pretend- 
ing that  the  figures  are  live  officers  watching  the  bathers. 
The  aunt  says  they  may  be  officers,  but  they  cannot  be 
gentlemen,  etc.  I  well  recollect  Leech  showing  me  a 
pencil  drawing  of  the  targets  in  human  form,  and  telling 
me  how  seldom  he  adopted  the  practice.  As  I  fancy  I  am 
one  of  the  very  few  who  have  figured  personally  in  Punch 
under  Leech's  pencil,  I  may  be  excused  for  the  egotism  of 
the  following: 

About  the  year  1852  I  began  the  first  of  a  series  of  pict- 
ures from  modern  life,  then  quite  a  novelty  in  the  hands  of 
any  one  who  could  paint  tolerably.  When  the  picture  was 
finished,  Leech  came  to  see  it,  and  expressed  his  pleasure 
at  an  artist  leaving  what  he  called  "mouldy  costumes," 
for  the  habits  and  manners  of  every-day  life.  While  he 
was  talking,  two  of  my  brother  artists  .came  and  saw  the 
picture  for  the  first  time.  They  both  looked  long  at  the 
picture,  and  the  longer  they  looked,  judging  from  their 
faces,  the  less  they  liked  it.  I  shall  not  forget  Leech's 


472  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

expression  when  I  gave  him  a  sort  of  questioning  look  as 
to  the  correctness  of  his  judgment. 

11  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  picture  ?"  said  Leech, 
to  one  of  the  artists. 

"Well,  really,  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  was  the 
reply. 

Anybody  caring  to  see  the  way  the  great  artist  made  a 
picture  out  of  this,  will  find  it  in  one  of  the  numbers  of 
Life  and  Character,  and  will  see  me  figure  as  Jack  Arm- 
strong, and  my  two  artist  friends  as  Messrs.  Potter  and 
Feeble.  The  background  resembles  my  old  painting-room, 
with  armor,  cabinets  of  oak,  etc.,  for  which  memory  alone 
served  the  artist.  In  common  with  many  of  my  fellow- 
creatures,  I  proposed  a  great  many  subjects  to  Leech.  I 
think  he  said,  "Ah,  capital !"  to  almost  all  of  them;  but  in 
the  whole  course  of  our  acquaintance  he  never  drew  but 
one,  and  that  only  after  asking  me — when  I  thought  it  had 
gone  the  way  of  the  others — if  I  intended  to  use  it  my- 
self. I  had  told  him  that  my  brother-in-law  had  taken  a 
party  to  Epsom  to  the  Derby ;  they  went  by  road,  and 
when  the  time  came  to  summon  the  post-boy  and  return 
home,  that  individual  was  found  so  very  drunk  as  to  be 
quite  incapable  of  sitting  his  horse  for  a  moment.  He 
was  tied  on  to  the  carriage,  and  my  brother-in-law 
mounted  into  his  saddle  and  drove  home.  The  scene  will 
be  familiar  to  those  who  study  Punch's  delightful  vol- 
umes. How  often  Leech  was  told  that  he  was  the  "back- 
bone of  Punch"  and  that  if  anything  happened  to  him  the 
days  of  the  paper  were  numbered  !  I  thought  it,  and  said 
as  much  to  him.  I  can  see  him  smile,  and  hear  him  say, 
"  Don't  talk  such  rubbish.  Why,  bless  your  heart,  there 
isn't  a  fellow  at  work  on  the  paper  that  doesn't  think  that 
of  himself,  and  with  as  much  right  and  reason  as  I  should ; 
but  I  think  no  such  nonsense." 

As  Leech  got  older  his  melancholy  increased  upon  him ; 
his  extreme  sensitiveness  to  noise  became  more  acute,  and 
when  at  last  he  became  subject  to  slight  attacks  of  angina 
pectoris,lris  descriptions  of  his  sufferings  from  street  noises 
of  all  kinds  were  painful  to  hear.  My  last  talk  with  Leech 
was  on  a  certain  Tuesday,  at  a  dinner  -  party  given  by  an 


JOHN  LEECH.  473 

old  friend  of  mine  and  Leech's,  Mr.  Hills,  in  Queen  Anne 
Street.  I  sat  next  him  at  dinner,  and  was  somewhat 
struck  by  his  worn  and  melancholy  appearance,  which,  I 
thought,  had  increased  upon  him.  His  constant  talk  dur- 
ing dinner  was  of  the  annoyances  he  was  subjected  to  by 
organs,  bands,  barking  of  dogs,  cock-crowing,  etc.  "  Rath- 
er," he  said,  "  than  endure  the  torment  that  I  suffer  all 
day  long,  I  would  prefer  to  go  to  the  grave  where  there  is 
no  noise."  These  were  the  last  words  I  heard  from  John 
Leech.  He  died  on  the  following  Saturday  from  a  severe 
attack  of  angina  pectoris,  and  in  the  following  week  he 
was  in  the  grave  where  "  there  is  no  noise." 


CHAPTER  L. 

A     GHOST     STOBY. 

"  WHAT  a  piece  of  work  is  man,"  says  Shakespeare ; 
"in  apprehension  how  like  a  god !"  Among  all  the  exam- 
ples of  man's  power,  surely  the  employment  of  the  sun  as 
an  artist  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful.  That  this  discov- 
ery is  not  of  unmixed  good  is  shown,  I  think,  in  the  im- 
minent destruction  by  photography  of  a  beautiful  art, 
that  of  the  miniature-painter.  In  my  earlier  days  the 
miniature  -  room  at  the  Royal  Academy  was  one  of  the 
chief  attractions  of  the  annual  exhibition.  The  works  of 
Sir  William  Ross,  Thorburn,  Wells,  and  others  were  ex- 
quisite examples  of  a  delightful  art,  but  they  were  power- 
less in  competition  with  their  rival,  the  sun.  That  distin- 
guished artist  in  an  instant  fixes  a  likeness,  which,  by  a 
rapid  process,  is  prepared  for  the  "artistic  merit"  with 
which  the  cdrtorist  "  invests  "  the  cheap  photograph.  The 
exhibitions  of  to-day  still  afford  us  examples — good  ones 
sometimes — of  struggles  against  the  sun,  and  against  the 
bad  taste  and  ignorance  of  the  public ;  but  each  succeed- 
ing year  serves  to  show  the  diminished  numbers  of  this 
"  forlorn  hope,"  and  unless  a  fickle  public  tires  of  photog- 
raphy, as  it  does  of  everything  else,  miniature-painting 
will  soon  be  numbered  among  the  lost  arts. 

An  artist,  whom  I  shall  call  Westwood,  whose  minia- 
tures are  among  the  best  of  those  in  each  year's  show,  is 
the  hero  of  the  following  story,  the  relation  of  which  I 
heard  from  his  own  lips. 

Mr.  Westwood  is  a  peripatetic  artist,  and  his  wander- 
ings have  been  extensive  and  varied ;  not  without  their 
charms,  for  he  has*  generally  found  himself  treated  with 
genial  hospitality  and  his  art  with  respect.  In  one  of  his 
professional  tours,  a  few  years  ago,  he  found  himself  at  a 


A   GHOST   STORY.  475 

country-house  filled  with  autumn  company.  The  house 
was  a  "  moated  grange,"  dating  from  the  days  of  the  Tu- 
dors,  with  alterations  and  additions  of  a  later  time,  and 
the  owner's  name  was  Blob.  A  room,  with  the  necessary 
north  light,  was  set  apart  for  the  artist,  whose  time  was 
to  be  devoted  to  the  portraiture  of  the  Misses  and  Master 
Blob.  Westwood,  like  many  of  his  tribe,  was  a  bad  sleep- 
er, being  terribly  susceptible  to  the  noises  of  the  night, 
the  slightest  of  which  would  always  wake  him  from  his 
fitful  slumber,  cock-crowing  being  held  in  especial  horror. 
His  satisfaction  was,  therefore,  great  when  he  found  that 
he  was  consigned  to  the  only  vacant  bedroom  in  the  Mai- 
son  Blob,  from  the  oriel  window  of  which  tranquillity,  in 
the  shape  of  a  huge  garden,  was  assured  to  him  — beyond 
the  twittering  of  birds  no  noise  could  reach  him. 

As  I  have  said,  the  house  was  full  of  company,  and  "  a 
jovial  crew  they  were,"  said  the  artist ;  so,  with  music, 
games,  and  a  quadrille  or  two,  the  evening  passed  merrily 
away,  and  Westwood  went  to  rest.  The  bed  was  a  huge 
four-poster,  with  hearselike  plumes  crowning  each  post ; 
opposite  to  it  was  a  large  oak  cabinet,  and  to  the  left, 
and  facing  the  door,  was  the  oriel  window.  The  moon 
shone  full  upon  the  window,  making  the  room  almost  as 
bright  as  day.  The  excitement  of  the  evening  was  not 
the  best  preparative  for  a  bad  sleeper,  and  for  some  time 
the  painter  sat  by  the  window,  and  enjoyed  the  moon- 
light effects  in  the  garden.  But  the  effort  to  sleep  must 
be  made,  and  Westwood  mounted  into  his  big  bed,  and 
laid  himself  down  to  woo  the  terribly  fickle  god  ;  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  counted  the  proverbial  flock  of  sheep.  He 
also  counted  up  to  a  hundred,  and  had  managed  to  count 
part  of  that  number  backward,  when,  feeling  that  the 
common  receipt  for  sleep  was  unavailing,  he  opened  his 
eyes.  At  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  in  full  moonlight,  stood 
the  figure  of  a  lady.  She  was  somewhat  elderly,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  looking  for  something  she  had  lost.  West- 
wood  sat  up  in  bed,  and  said, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  think  you  have  mistaken  your 
room." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  attentively  at  the  figure,  in  the 


476  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

endeavor  to  identify  it  with  one  of  the  Blob  guests,  but 
iu  vain.  The  lady  looked  as  if  she  had  stepped  from  the 
canvas  of  Reynolds,  and,  to  his  astonishment,  the  oak  cab- 
inet was  plainly  visible  through  her ! 

"  By  Jove,"  said  Westwood  to  himself,  "  here  is  a  ghost 
at  last !  Now  I  call  this  interesting." 

As  these  thoughts  —  in  which  he  assured  me  fear  had 
not  the  least  share  —  passed  through  his  mind,  the  figure 
raised  its  face  and  looked  straight  at  the  painter.  It  was 
an  awful  face,  with  an  expression  of  horror  and  distress 
unutterable.  For  an  instant  the  head  was  bent,  and  the 
apparent  search  renewed ;  then,  as  if  in  despairing  hope- 
lessness, the  figure,  wringing  its  hands,  slowly  faded  away. 

"  What  a  pity  she  went  away  so  soon !  a  little  longer 
I  could  have  got  her  face  sufficiently  for  a  sketch.  No- 
body would  believe  this.  I  wish  she  would  come  back !" 

She  did  not,  and,  after  watching  for  an  hour  or  two,  the 
artist  slept. 

After  next  morning's  breakfast,  Westwood  took  Mrs. 
Blob  aside  and  told  her  what  he  had  seen. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Westwood  !  I  am  so  sorry !  I  ought  to  have 
told  you.  You  are  not  the  least  frightened?  Oh,  I  am 
so  glad  !  but  we  ought  to  have  told  you.  That  disagree- 
able room  was  the  only  vacant  one,  you  know.  Is  the 
tiresome  creature  likely  to  come  to  see  you  again  ?  I  fear 
so — yes." 

"I  most  devoutly  hope  so,"  said  my  friend.  "Now, 
Mrs.  Blob,  I  shall  ask  you  for  a  lamp.  I  can  keep  it 
turned  down  very  low.  My  water-colors  shall  be  ready. 
Fire  ?  Oh,  I  will  be  most  careful.  I  do  so  want  to  make 
a  sketch,  and  after  a  night  or  two  I  could  manage  it." 

"  There  is  a  picture  of  the  woman  by  Reynolds  in  the 
gallery.  Can't  you  do  it  from  that  ?" 

"  Please  show  it  to  me." 

Into  the  gallery  went  Westwood's  hostess,  followed  by 
the  artist. 

"Ah,  I  can  see  the  likeness,  but  this  is  a  young  and 
lovely  woman.  Yes,  she  might  grow  into  the  shape  and 
make  of  my  ghostly  visitor,  but  the  ghost  must  be  seventy 
at  least." 


A  GHOST   STOBY.  477 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Blob,  "the  wretch  was  rather  more 
than  that  when  the  crime  was  committed  which  she  seems 
to  be  expiating  in  this  unpleasant  manner." 

"  Oh,  a  crime  !"  said  Westwood.     "  What  crime  ?" 

"  Really,"  replied  the  lady,  "  I  can't  bear  to  talk  of  her 
wickedness.  Mr.  Blob  will  tell  you  all  about  it  if  you  de- 
sire to  know  more." 

Westwood  made  a  good  beginning  of  the  Blob  minia- 
ture. Night  came,  the  convivial  dinner  was  repeated,  and 
the  artist  retired,  armed  with  palette  and  brushes,  and 
waited  the  return  of  the  spirit.  Nor  did  he  wait  in  vain. 
The  previous  night's  performance  was  repeated,  but  before 
it  began  the  painter  addressed  the  ghost  in  these  words : 

"  Madam,  my  dear  madam,  nobody  will  believe  this  un- 
less I  can  give  substantial  evidence  of  the  truth  of  it. 
Would  you  mind  staying  a  little  longer  than  usual,  so  that 
I  could  get  your  image  more  perfectly  into  my  mind?  I 
am  an  artist,  madam,  in  water-colors — "  Confound  her, 
she  is  gone  again !  Never  mind,  I've  had  a  deuced  good 
look  at  her." 

And  with  these  words  the  light  was  turned  up,  and, 
though  the  sitting  was  all  too  short  (as  sittings  so  often 
arc),  a  satisfactory  beginning  was  made. 

My  friend  was  warned  by  his  hostess  to  say  nothing  of 
what  he  had  seen,  to  the  children  especially,  or  to  any  one 
else. 

"  We  never  use  the  room,"  said  the  lady,  "  if  we  can 
avoid  doing  so ;  and  when  the  necessity  arises  we  warn 
our  guests,  for  the  wretch  is  sure  to  visit  the  place.  I 
suppose  we  shall  end  in  building  up  the  room." 

(This,  I  hear,  has  since  been  done.)  Westwood's  work 
at  the  "moated  grange"  was  over  in  about  a  fortnight, 
and  by  that  time,  after  regular  midnight  visits  from  the 
spirit,  he  made  what  he  assured  me  is  not  a  bad  likeness 
of  his  nocturnal  visitor ;  and  a  most  awful  face  it  is,  with 
a  terrible,  crime  -  haunted  expression  impossible  to  for- 
get. . 

Of  all  my  acquaintances  I  know  none  more  prosaic  and 
sensible  than  my  old  friend  Westwood,  who  persists  to 
this  day  that  the  drawing — photographs  from  which  are 


478  MY    AUTOBIOGEAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

in  several  hands  —  was  a  bond -fide  portrait  of  a  ghost. 
Before  he  took  his  departure  he  heard  the  particulars  of 
the  crime,  and,  though  we  ought  not  to  say  so,  the  Blobs 
should  be  grateful  to  the  perpetrator,  for  the  consequences 
of  it  were  a  vast  accession  of  property  to  them. 

About  the  year  1780  the  owner  of  the  "  moated  grange  " 
and  the  property  attached  to  it  died,  leaving  an  infant 
son  heir  to  the  property,  whose  mother  died  in  giving  him 
birth.  The  child  was  but  a  few  weeks  old  when  it  was 
left  to  the  care  of  an  old  lady,  whose  family  were  inter- 
ested in  its  death,  because,  if  that  event  occurred,  the  es- 
tates would  revert  to  them.  The  heir  died  suddenly  from 
a  fit  of  convulsions,  as  announced  in  the  country  paper ; 
the  truth  being  that  the  old  lady  sent  the  nurse  out  of  the 
room — which  she  afterwards  haunted — on  an  errand  that 
required  some  little  time  for  the  fulfilment  of  its  duties, 
and  in  her  absence  the  murderess  smothered  the  child  with 
a  pillow  as  it  lay  in  its  cot  on  the  floor.  This  is  the  tale 
as  it  was  told  to  me,  and  I  think  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  a  better  authenticated  ghost-story. 

I  supplement  Westwood's  story  by  an  unpleasant  experi- 
ence of  another  friend  of  mine. 

At  Knebworth,  the  seat  of  Lord  Lytton,  there  is  a  bed- 
chamber called  the  "  Yellow  Boy's  Room."  The  story 
goes  that  Lord  Castlereagh  —  Byron's  "  carotid  -  cutting 
Castlereagh  " — was,  on  one  occasion,  the  guest  of  the  late 
Lord  Lytton's  father.  Without  any  warning  he  was  con- 
signed, for  the  night,  to  the  "  Yellow  Boy's  Room."  On 
the  following  morning  Lord  Castlereagh  told  Mr.  Bulwer 
that  he  had  been  disturbed  in  the  night  in  a  very  startling 
and  unpleasant  fashion. 

•"  I  was  very  tired,"  said  my  lord,  "  and  was  soon  asleep. 
I  could  not  have  slept  long,  for  the  wood-fire  opposite  the 
foot  of  my  bed  was  still  burning  when  I  started  up.  What 
awoke  me  I  know  not.  I  looked  in  the  direction  of  the 
fire  and  saw,  sitting  with  its  back  towards  me,  what  ap- 
peared to  be  the  figure  of  a  boy  with  long,  yellowish  hair. 
As  I  looked  the  figure  arose,  turned  towards  me,  and, 
drawing  back  the  curtain  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed  with 
one  hand,  with  the  other  he  drew  his  fingers  two  or  three 


A  GHOST  STOEY.  479 

times  across  his  throat.  I  saw  him,"  said  my  lord,  "  as 
distinctly  as  I  see  you  now." 

"  You  must  have  been  dreaming,"  said  Bulwer. 

"  No,  I  was  wide  awake." 

Mr.  Bulwer  did  not  tell  Lord  Castlereagh  that  the  "Yel- 
low Boy  "  always  appeared  to  any  one  who  was  destined 
to  die  a  violent  death,  and  always  indicated  the  manner 
of  it  to  the  victim. 

These  details  were  communicated  by  the  late  Lord  Lyt- 
ton  to  an  extremely  nervous  —  not  to  say  timid  —  artist 
friend  of  mine  at  midnight  of  the  first  day  of  his  visit  to 
Knebworth. 

"You  are  not  nervous,  I  know,  my  dear  Mr.  Green,  or 
I  would  have  kept  this  from  you,  as  you  will  sleep  in  the 
'Yellow  Boy's  Room'  to-night.  You  will  not  be  fright- 
ened, will  you  ?" 

"No — no — o,"  said  my  friend,  with  an  ashy  face. 

"Well,  it  is  getting  late  ;  what  do  you  say  to  retiring? 
Yes,  that  is  your  candle.  Too  warm  for  a  fire  in  your 
room.  You  don't  mind?  Good-night." 

The  rest  of  the  story  shall  be  told  in  my  old  friend's 
words,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember  them. 

"I  had  seen  the  infernal  room  before  dinner,  and  I 
thought  it  looked  a  ghostly  sort  of  place ;  and  when  I 
reached  it  that  night,  what  would  I  not  have  given  to  be 
back  in  my  own  room  at  home !  I  looked  under  the  bed, 
up  the  great,  wide  chimney,  and  had  a  shock  from  the 
sight  of  my  own  face  in  the  looking-glass.  No  ghost 
could  be  whiter  than  I  was.  I  don't  believe  in  ghosts, 
you  know ;  but  still  it  was  really  too  bad  of  Lytton  to  tell 
me  such  things  just  as  I  was  going  to  bed,  and  then  to  put 
me  in  the  very  place !  There  was  an  awful  old  cabinet.  I 
managed  to  pull  one  door  open,  and  was  tugging  at  the 
other,  when  my  candle  went  out  —  how,  I  don't  know  — 
somebody  seemed  to  blow  it  out.  I  can't  tell  you  what 
became  of  it ;  all  I  know  is  I  jumped  into  bed  with  my 
boots  on,  and  lay  trembling  there  for  hours,  Frith — liter- 
ally for  hours — till  sleep  took  me  at  last :  and  never  was 
I  more  thankful  than  when  I  awoke  and  saw  the  sun  shin- 
ing into  the  '  Yellow  Boy's  Room.' " 


CHAPTER  LI. 

THE    STOET    OF    MY    POETKAIT. 

THE  student  need  never  be  at  a  loss  for  a  model,  so  long 
as  he  possesses  a  looking-glass.  Better  practice  than  the 
reproduction  of  his  own  features  cannot  be  followed.  He 
is  sure  of  a  patient  sitter,  and  he  has  the  example  of  nearly 
all  the  great  painters,  whose  "very  form  and  feature" 
have  come  down  to  us  limned  by  their  own  hands. 

There  are  between  thirty  and  forty  portraits  of  Rem- 
brandt painted  by  himself.  Some  of  Reynolds'  finest 
works  are  reproductions  of  himself  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  ; 
and  the  forms  of  Titian,  Vandyke,  Rubens,  Raphael,  and 
Leonardo,  to  say  nothing  of  nearly — if  not  quite — all  the 
great  Dutchmen,  are  as  familiar  to  us  as  household  words. 
I  share — in  common  with  all  my  fellow-creatures — the 
eager  curiosity  that  every  one  feels  respecting  the  outward 
and  visible  form  of  the  producer  of  works  of  genius,  be 
they  artistic  or  literary.  Portrait -pain  ting,  speaking 
generally,  is  to  me  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  art,  and 
my  own  likeness  has  defied  me  over  and  over  again. 

In  my  youth,  and  in  the  absence  of  a  better  model,  I 
spent  hour  after  hour  staring  into  a  mirror,  with  results 
unrecognizable  by  my  friends  as  likenesses  of  myself. 
One  of  the  best  of  these  portraits  is  in  the  possession  of 
my  old  friend  Mr.  J.  C.  Parkinson,  so  well  known  as  the 
genial  and  accomplished  friend  of  Dickens  (to  whose  House- 
hold Words  he  so  often  contributed).  I  believe  Mr.  Park- 
inson found  me  in  a  shop-window,  and  possessed  me  with- 
out a  great  pecuniary  sacrifice.  Mr.  Parkinson  is  doubt- 
less well  known  to  my  readers  as  the  author  of  several 
works  displaying  considerable  literary  ability,  showing  a 
more  powerful  grasp  than  that  necessary — or  possible  even 
— for  the  fugitive  pieces  in  the  periodical  press.  My  old 


THE   STOKY    OF   MY    PORTBAIT.  481 

friend  numbers  among  his  acquaintances  nearly  every  man 
of  mark  in  London,  and  I  believe  there  is  not  one  among 
them  who  would  not  be  pleased  to  consider  himself  his 
friend. 

Another  early  work  was  brought  to  my  notice  by  a 
friend  who  discovered  it  in  an  establishment  in  Great 
Portland  Street. 

"  It  is  a  capital  picture,"  he  said,  "  and  though  not  a  bit 
like  what  you  are  now,  I  fancy  it  may  have  resembled  you 
scores  of  years  ago.  Go  and  look  at  it." 

I  yielded  to  the  advice,  and  made  my  way  to  Great 
Portland  Street,  where,  in  a  shabby  gallery  behind  a  shop, 
I  saw  my  own  image,  after  an  estrangement  of  five-and- 
forty  years.  I  have  not  the  least  recollection  of  parting 
with  the  portrait,  either  by  way  of  sale  or  gift,  nor  could 
I  trace  its  wanderings  from  any  information  that  the  shop- 
keeper could  afford  me  ;  but  I  determined  to  buy  it  if  the 
price  were  reasonable.  I  found  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
place  was  a  woman.  After  examining  several  works  of  a 
very  uninteresting  character,  I  affected  to  catch  a  sight  of 
my  own  portrait,  and  said  : 

"  Ah,  a  portrait !     Whose  likeness  is  that  ?" 

"  That,"  said  the  lady,  "  is  a  portrait  of  the  celebrated 
artist,  Frith,  painted  by  himself." 

"Frith?"  said  I ;  "why,  he  must  be  quite  an  elderly 
man." 

"  Well,  sir,  but  he  was  young  once  ;  and  that's  what  he 
was  when  he  was  young." 

"Hum — ha  !"  said  I,  pretending  to  examine  the  picture. 
"  Not  much  of  a  picture." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  judges  think  it  a  very  fine  picture." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  price?" 

"Twenty  pounds." 

"Surely  that  is  a  stiff  price  ?"  said  I. 

"  Well,"  said  the  woman,  "  it  cost  us  nearly  as  much  ; 
we  shall  make  a  very  small  profit.  You  see,  it  is  very 
valuable,  because  the  artist  is  diseased." 

"  Deceased  !"  I  exclaimed.     "  Dead,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Died  of  drink." 

"  Surely,"  I  exclaimed,  u  you  have  made  a  mistake!" 
21 


482  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  About  the  drink  ?  Oh,  no,  sir  ;  most  artists  is  very 
dissipated.  He  was  dreadful,  Frith  was.  I  dare  say  you 
have  seen  the  print  called  '  The  Railway  Station.'  Well, 
my  husband  used  to  see  him  when  he  was  doing  of  it,  al- 
ways more  or  less  in  liquor.  My  husband  wondered  how 
he  could  do  his  work  ;  but  it  wore  him  out  at  last — the 
drink  did." 

"  Why,"  said  I, "  how  can  that  be,  when  I  tell  you  a 
friend  of  mine  saw  him  the  other  day  ?" 

"  Not  Frith,  your  friend  didn't.  How  could  he  ?  when 
he's  dead  and  buried,  as  I  well  know,  for  my  husband  at- 
tended his  funeral !" 

"  Can't  you  modify  the  price  of  the  portrait  a  little  ?" 
said  I.  "  Twenty  pounds  is  too  much." 

"No,  sir — that  is  what  my  husband  fixed  the  price  at; 
I  was  never  to  take  no  less.  My  husband  and  him  was 
great  friends,  and  he  would  rather  keep  the  likeness  than 
sell  it  for  less." 

Finding  the  Avoman  immovable,  I  paid  the  money,  and 
the  portrait  is  now  in  my  possession.  I  did  not  reveal 
myself  to  the  shopkeeper,  for  she  would  not  have  believed 
me  if  I  had  assured  her  of  what  she  may  learn,  if  by  a 
very  unlikely  chance  she  reads  these  pages — that  I  am  not 
diseased,  and  that  I  never  was  drunk  but  once  in  my  life, 
and  the  consequences  of  that  lapse  were  so  very  unpleas- 
ant that  I  have  no  fear  of  ever  repeating  the  indiscre- 
tion. 

I  may  have  a  difficulty  in  persuading  my  readers  that  a 
young  artist  may  spend  hours,  even  days,  over  a  picture, 
and  then  forget  all  about  it  to  such  a  degree  as  to  make 
the  sight  of  it,  after  a  long  lapse  of  time,  perfectly  new  to 
him;  that  is  to  say,  he  will  not  recognize  it  as  anything 
he  has  previously  seen.  Such,  however,  is  the  fact ;  and 
it  is  no  less  true  that  artists  have  been  known  to  repudiate 
pictures  afterwards  conclusively  proved  to  be  authentic, 
with  consequences  unpleasant  to  themselves. 

I  will  give  an  example.  A  picture,  with  the  name  of 
Poole,  R.A.,  attached  to  it,  was  sold  at  Christie's.  The 
purchaser,  though  perfectly  satisfied  of  its  originality, 
sent  the  picture  to  the  artist,  with  a  request  that  he  would 


THE    STOEY   OP    MY    PORTRAIT.  483 

sign  it.  Poole  looked  at  the  picture,  and  then  at  the  mes- 
senger, and  said  : 

"  Tell  the  person  who  sent  this  thing  for  me  to  sign  that 
it  is  not  my  work.  I  never  saw  it  before,  and  I  hope  I 
shall  never  see  it  again." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  the  owner,  when  the  message  was  con- 
veyed to  him,  "  then  I  will  have  my  money  restored  to  me." 

Messrs.  Christie  put  the  buyer  in  communication  with 
the  seller,  with  the  following  result : 

"  Oh  !  Poole  denies  he  did  it,  does  he  ?  Look  here,  I 
have  his  own  receipt  for  the  purchase-money,  received  from 

his  own  hands  in  the  year .  I  will  go  to  the  artist 

with  you." 

And  to  the  artist  both  buyer  and  seller  went. 

"As  I  told  your  messenger,"  said  Poole,  "I  never  saw 
the  picture  before  in  my  life.  You,  sir  ?  No,  I  have  no 
recollection  of  ever  having  seen  you." 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  know  your  own  handwriting, 
sir  ?"  said  the  seller. 

"  Suppose  I  should,"  said  Poole. 

"Then  do  me  the  favor  to  cast  your  eye  over  that," 
showing  receipt. 

Poole  read — a  pause. 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  receipt,  sure  enough." 

Then  a  long  and  steady  look  at  the  picture  by  the  artist. 

"  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  recollect  it,"  said  he ;  "  but 
I  do  remember  painting  a  small  picture  of  'Lear  and  Cor- 
delia' in  the  year .  I  painted  it  on  a  piece  of  panel 

made  from  the  wood  of  an  old  worn-out  piano,  and  if  that 
is  the  one,  you  will  find  a  small  knot  in  the  wood  at  the 
back. 

The  picture  was  turned  round,  and,  lo  !  the  knot !  Pro- 
fuse apology  from  the  painter,  and  his  signature  was 
placed  on  the  picture. 

In  the  days  of  Reynolds  the  forgetfulness  of  artists  of 
their  early  works  was  broached  at  the  dinner-table  in 
Leicester  Fields.  Reynolds  could  not  bring  himself  to 
believe  in  the  possibility  of  a  man's  so  completely  forgetting 
the  production  of  his  own  brain  and  hand.  Some  months 
after  the  discussion  a  very  early  work  of  Reynolds'  came 


484  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

into  the  possession  of  Burke.  That  distinguished  man, 
accompanied  by  a  friend — Bennet  Langton,  I  think — called 
upon  Reynolds,  and  showed  him  the  picture  as  the  work 
of  a  young  student  whose  friends  were  anxious  to  know 
if  the  great  painter  would  advise,  from  the  specimen 
shown,  that  the  young  man  should  be  allowed  to  adopt 
art  as  his  profession.  Reynolds  looked  long  at  the  pict- 
ure, and,  turning  to  Burke,  said  : 

"  Is  the  painter  of  this  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  know  and  am  much  interested 
in  him." 

"Well,"  said  Sir  Joshua,  again  studying  the  portrait 
attentively,  "  I  really  don't  feel  able  to  give  an  opinion 
one  way  or  the  other.  It  is  a  cleverish  thing,  but  whether 
there  is  sufficient  promise  in  it  to  justify  my  advising  the 
young  man  to  adopt  art  as  his  profession  I  really  cannot 
say." 

The  picture  was  proved  to  be  Reynolds'  work,  but  the 
artist  had  completely  forgotten  it.  In  my  own  career  I 
have  experienced  the  truth  of  this  strange  fact.  A  gentle- 
man, whose  father's  portrait  I  had  painted  when  I  was 
very  young,  was  desirous  that  I  should  see  it,  and  said  as 
much  to  a  friend  of  mine.  I  went  to  his  house,  and  was 
shown  into  the  dining-room,  in  which  there  were  several 
portraits,  and  mine  among  them  ;  but  I  was  quite  unable 
to  say  which  of  the  series — they  were  all  pretty  bad — was 
painted  by  me. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

JENNY    LIND,  MB.  BARNUM,  AND   OTHERS. 

PROMINENT  characters  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  rumor. 
The  celebrated  American,  Mr.  Barnum,  entrepreneur,  show- 
man, and  "  universal  provider"  of  all  kinds  of  amusement, 
holds  a  distinguished  place  in  the  public  mind,  favorable 
or  unfavorable.  According  to  the  dictates  of  rumor,  I 
think  the  idea  of  most  people  would  be,  that  if  Mr.  Bar- 
num had  entered  into  an  engagement  highly  beneficial  to 
himself,  he  would  not  permit  it  to  be  broken  for  the  ben- 
efit of  somebody  else.  That  is  what  rumor  would  say ; 
and  what  I  am  about  to  relate  will  prove  that  rumor  lies, 
as  usual.  I  may  premise  that  I  have  not  the  honor  of  Mr. 
Barnum's  acquaintance  ;  my  sole  object  in  making  known 
an  incident  connected  with  him  being  to  prove  how  mis- 
taken those  may  be  who  can  only  see  in  the  dealer  in 
amusements  the  hard  and  exacting  taskmaster. 

All  the  world  has  heard  of  Jenny  Lind,  but  all  the  world 
may  not  know  that  she  was  only  on  the  stage  two  years, 
and  that  part  of  that  time  was  spent  in  America,  whither 
the  Swedish  songstress  went,  bound  by  a  legal  engage- 
ment to  sing  under  Mr.  Barnum's  management  and  direc- 
tion only.  Whether  from  being  badly  advised,  or  from 
the  undervaluing  of  powers  common  to  modest  genius, 
Mademoiselle  Lind  found,  on  her  arrival  in  America,  that 
she  had  made  a  terrible  mistake  in  the  terms  of  her  en- 
gagement. She  was  fast  bound,  and  she  knew  it ;  and 
in  default  of  a  release  from  the  awful  Barnum,  she  was 
prepared  to  fulfil  her  duties  to  the  letter.  Immediately 
after  the  lady's  arrival  Mr.  Barnum  appeared.  He  lis- 
tened to  reasons  and  explanations,  all  demonstrating,  from 
the  singer's  point  of  view,  the  mistake  that  had  been 
made ;  and  he  was  assured  that  if  those  reasons  had  no 


486  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

weight  with  him,  he  might  rely  on  every  point  of  the  en- 
gagement being  religiously  carried  out. 

"  This,  madam,  is  the  document  you  signed  in  England, 
is  it  not?"  said  Mr.  Barnum,  producing  a  deed. 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  the  lady,  "and  I  am  ready  to 
abide  by  it,  if  I  have  been  unable  to  convince — " 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  destroy  it.  Tear  it  up,  madam  ;  and 
if  you  will  instruct  your  lawyer  to  prepare  another  from 
your  own  dictation,  naming  whatever  you  think  fair  for 
your  services,  I  will  sign  it  without  hesitation." 

This  was  done  ;  the  terms  were  satisfactorily  increased, 
and  the  engagement  was  fulfilled  so  successfully  as  to 
leave  Mr.  Barnum  a  substantial  reward  for  his  generosity. 

I  had  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  meeting  Madame  Otto 
Goldschmidt  at  dinner,  at  my  friend  Mr.  Lumley  Smith's 
house,  when  I  heard  the  foregoing  from  her  own  lips,  and 
at  the  same  time  received  permission  to  make  it  as  public 
as  I  pleased. 

In  writing  of  one  great  singer,  I  am  reminded  of  the 
many  delightful  evenings  on  which  I  have  met  others  at 
the  hospitable  house  of  Mr.  J.  M.  Levy  in  Lancaster  Gate, 
and  in  Grosvenor  Street.  Nilsson,  Patti,  and  Titiens  were 
constant  guests ;  and,  if  my  memory  does  not  betray  me, 
I  heard  all  three  sing  on  the  same  evening,  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  Lancaster  Gate.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
more  charming  gatherings  than  those  collected  by  Mr. 
Levy,  more  sumptuous  dinners,  better  wines,  or — most 
valued  of  all,  by  some — rarer  cigars,  than  those  offered 
to  his  guests.  My  first  sight  of  Rubinstein  was  there. 
In  short,  if  I  were  to  go  on  naming  the  distinguished  peo- 
ple collected  together  I  should  have  to  mention  most  of 
the  "lions"  of  each  London  season. 

On  one  memorable  occasion  we  were  honored  by  the 
company  of  the  "  Midgets,"  who  were  served  with  a  min- 
iature dinner,  all  to  themselves.  When  they  were  at  their 
dessert  I  leaned  over  the  female  Midget,  who  was  very 
like  a  monkey,  and  as  spiteful  as  one,  and  asked  her  for  a 
grape  from  her  little  plate.  She  placed  her  left  hand  over 
the  plate,  and  with  her  fork  in  the  right  she  made  a  dash 
at  my  face,  which  might  have  deprived  me  of  the  sight 


JENNY    LIND,  ME.   BABNUM,  AND    OTHEBS.  487 

of  an  eye,  for  she  only  just  missed  one  of  them.  After 
dinner  Nilsson  took  them  in  her  arms  and,  sitting  on  the 
floor,  sang  to  them.  The  wondering,  rather  frightened 
expression  of  the  creatures'  faces  was  striking,  as  indeed 
was  Nilsson  herself,  looking  like  a  splendid  embodiment 
of  Charity  with  her  attendant  children. 


CHAPTER  Lin. 

LADY   AETISTS. 

I  FEAB  it  must  be  admitted,  if  we  study  the  history  of 
art  from  its  earliest  development,  that  few  female  names 
adorn  it ;  we  have  a  long  and  honored  list  of  old  masters, 
but  no  old  mistresses.  In  the  first  list  of  names  of  Royal 
Academicians  we  find  two  of  the  gentler  sex — Angelica 
Kauffman  and  Mary  Moser  ;  the  first  was  a  painter  of  his- 
torical and  Scripture  pieces,  the  second  a  fruit  and  flower 
painter.  Neither  of  these  attained  a  high  level  in  their 
respective  ranks ;  Mrs.  Moser  being  far  surpassed  by  the 
Misses  Mutrie  of  our  day.  I  cannot  recall  the  precise 
date  of  the  admission  of  lady  students  to  th^e  Royal  Acad- 
emy, but  a  very  few  years  ago  they  were  inadmissible  ; 
now  they  are  almost  equal  in  number  to  the  male  students, 
from  whom  they  constantly  carry  off  prizes.  Whether 
the  means  and  methods  of  study,  shared  equally  (except 
in  one  important  particular)  with  their  rougher  rivals,  will 
in  course  of  time  qualify  them  to  become  old  mistresses 
to  future  ages,  time  only  can  prove.  My  position  as  vis- 
itor, or  teacher,  in  the  higher  schools  has  brought  me  into 
contact  with  numbers  of  lady  students,  whose  admirable 
studies  from  the  life  have  often  surprised  and  delighted 
me ;  and  in  the  Antique  School  I  have  seen  drawings  by 
mere  girls  that  could  not  be  surpassed.  Here,  then,  we 
have  students  armed  with  the  means  of  producing  good, 
and  even  great,  pictures ;  and  I  think  I  may  safely  assert 
that  if  the  great  pictures  are  yet  to  come,  our  annual  ex- 
hibitions show  good  ones  by  several  female  artists.  The 
sensation  created  by  the  exhibition  of  Miss  Thompson's 
picture  of  "  The  Roll  Call "  must  be  well  within  the  mem- 
ory of  my  readers.  I  fear  we  cannot  claim  this  lady  as  a 
student  of  the  Academy,  but  we  have  several  others  of 


LADY   ARTISTS.  489 

whom  we  may  justly  boast.  Among  the  first,  as  prac- 
tising in  the  higher  walk  of  art,  is  Mrs.  Ernest  Norman, 
who,  under  her  maiden  name,  Miss  Rae,  has  exhibited 
during  the  last  three  years  works  of  a  poetic  character 
that  would  do  credit  to  any  school. 

The  names  of  the  sisters  Montalba,  as  painters  and 
sculptors,  are  pleasantly  familiar  to  all  visitors  to  Bur- 
lington House,  their  works  showing  not  only  able  per- 
formance, but  great  promise  for  the  future.  Many  men 
would  be  proud  to  see  their  names  attached  to  the  pict- 
ures of  Mrs.  F.  Morgan,  who  under  her  maiden  name,  Alice 
Havers,  has  again  and  again  exhibited  works  full  of  nat- 
ure, beauty,  and  truth.  As  I  write  these  words  I  am  re- 
minded of  one  whom  I  honor  more  than  any  living  female 
painter,  always  excepting  Rosa  Bonheur,  of  whom  I  shall 
speak  presently.  For  the  most  delightful  treatment  of 
homely  and  sometimes  unpromising  subjects,  for  the  most 
subtle  and  intense  appreciation  of  beauty,  whether  of  color 
or  of  form,  in  all  its  aspects,  the  water-color  drawings  of 
Mrs.  Allingham  may  be  sought  for  in  the  Pall  Mail  Gallery 
with  a  certainty  of  delight  to  the  student,  as  well  as  to  the 
ordinary  visitor.  Whether  the  subject  chosen  by  this  ad- 
mirable artist  be  a  nursery  group  occupied  in  nursery  tri- 
fling, or  a  woman  hanging  out  clothes  in  a  cottage  garden, 
with  its  flowers  and  homely  surroundings,  these  common- 
place themes  are  invested  with  such  exquisite  art  as  to 
make  them  "a  joy  forever."  I  can  scarcely  boast  of  even 
a  slight  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Allingham — or,  indeed, 
with  any  of  the  ladies  I  have  mentioned — but  I  do  con- 
fess to  sensations  of  envy  when  I  recognize  the  intense 
feeling  for  nature,  and  the  happiness  that  must  accrue 
from  such  perfect  rendering  of  its  beauties,  as  this  lady 
possesses. 

There  is  yet  another  member  of  the  Old  Water  Color 
Society  whose  drawings  of  fruit  and  flowers  were — for, 
unhappily,  she  is  no  longer  living — of  the  highest  excel- 
lence, and  for  many  years  worthily  considered  great  at- 
tractions of  the  yearly  exhibitions  in  Pall  Mall.  Except- 
ing by  William  Hunt,  Mrs.  Angel's  drawings  of  dead 
birds,  flowers,  and  fruit  were  never  surpassed. 
21* 


490  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY  AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I  feel  I  am  not  out  of  place,  as  a  member  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  in  giving  expression  to  my  satisfaction — which 
I  know  to  be  shared  by  many  of  my  colleagues — with  the 
works  of  so  many  of  the  ladies  who  "  take  their  chance  " 
with  us  every  year  ;  and  among  the  most  prominent  are 
my  old  friends  Miss  Starr,  now  Madame  Canziani,  and 
Miss  Kate  Dickens,  now  Mrs.  Perugini.  Miss  Starr  is  a 
gold  medallist,  and  her  exhibition-work  year  after  year 
sufficiently  proves  that  she  has  taken  full  advantage  of 
her  academic  education.  It  is  a  sad  reflection  that  the 
premature  death  of  Charles  Dickens — occurring  as  it  did 
before  his  daughter  became  known  as  an  artist — should 
have  deprived  him  of  the  happiness  of  witnessing  Mrs. 
Perugini's  successes.  The  interest  Dickens  always  took 
in  art  and  artists  would  have  been  intensified — how  greatly! 
— when  he  found  one  so  near  and  dear  to  him  among  its 
valued  professors. 

Artists'  wives  and  sisters  are  frequent  exhibitors,  and 
some  of  them  excellent  painters.  For  many  years — indeed, 
till  the  lamented  death  of  her  husband — my  old  friend, 
Mrs.  E.  M.  Ward,  held  a  well-won  position  on  the  Academy 
walls.  Her  pictures  always  displayed  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  principles  of  art,  and  these  she  now  imparts 
to  a  large  school  full  of  ladies,  whose  progress  I,  in  com- 
pany with  some  of  my  colleagues,  have  the  satisfaction  of 
superintending  from  time  to  time.  The  exhibited  works 
of  Mrs.  Alma  Tadema  afford  proofs  of  original  power  de- 
veloped under  the  eye  of  her  distinguished  husband. 

Miss  Dicksee,  Miss  Gow,  and  Mrs.  Seymour-Lucas  (one 
of  whose  pictures  in  the  last  exhibition  received  the  com- 
pliment of  being  selected  by  Sir  Frederick  Leighton  for 
the  Art  Gallery  at  Melbourne)  are  nearly  connected  with 
the  admirable  artists  whose  names  they  bear,  and  how 
worthily  those  names  are  borne  may  be  seen  every  year 
at  Burlington  House.  More  fortunate  are  my  friends  in- 
their  sisters  than  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  in  his,  for  it 
is  related  that  Miss  Reynolds'  pictures  were  of  such  a 
character  that  "  they  made  her  brother  cry  and  everybody 
else  laugh." 

With  every  desire  to  do  justice  to  our  lady  exhibitors, 


LADY    A IM  I  VIS.  491 

I  may  forget  some  of  whom  I  ought  to  make  honorable 
mention.  I  think  we  owe  them  a  debt  of  gratitude  ;  and 
to  those  already  mentioned  I  must  add  the  names  of  Mrs. 
Lea  Merritt,  Miss  Osborne,  Mrs.  Jopling,  Miss  Dealy,  and 
no  doubt  I  ought  to  enumerate  many  others.  Whether 
we  shall  have  female  academicians  or  not  depends  upon 
the  ladies  themselves ;  all  the  honors  the  Academy  can 
bestow  are  open  to  them,  from  the  lowly  seat  of  the  asso- 
ciate to  the  presidential  chair.  A  female  president  is  not 
impossible.  After  the  death  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
Mrs.  Moser  might  have  reigned  in  that  great  man's  stead 
if  she  had  received  sufficient  support,  for  all  members 
were  candidates.  The  fates  were  against  her,  for  she  only 
obtained  one  vote  —  that  of  Fuseli  —  against  Benjamin 
West,  who  had  all  the  rest.  Fuseli  met  the  remonstrance 
of  a  brother  academician  by  declaring  that  "  he  did  not 
see  why  he  shouldn't  vote  for  one  old  woman  as  well  as 
another."  I  most  sincerely  hope  that  we  have  among  us 
young  mistresses  in  the  art  of  painting  that  future  ages 
may  see  fit  to  rank  among  the  old  masters ;  and  though 
I  decline  to  prophesy  with  respect  to  England,  I  feel  sure 
I  am  a  true  prophet  when  I  say  that  France  possesses  a 
lady  artist  whose  name  will  never  die.  That  name  is  Rosa 
Bonheur. 

In  1868  the  Great  Exhibition  was  held  in  Paris,  in 
which  the  English  school  of  painting  was  worthily  repre- 
sented, and  as  worthily  acknowledged  by  the  French.  I 
went  to  Paris  accompanied  by  Millais,  as  I  have  noted 
elsewhere.  Our  friend  Gambart  was  the  first  to  introduce 
the  works  of  Rosa  Bonheur  to  the  English  collectors. 
The  famous  "  Horse  Fair  "  passed  through  his  hands,  to- 
gether with  very  many  others,  some  of  which  still  remain 
with  him  in  his  marble  palace  at  Nice.  Above  and  be- 
yond all  the  eminent  French  artists  to  whom  Gambart  in- 
troduced us,  we  were  most  anxious  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mademoiselle  Rosa  Bonhcur.  Our  desire  was  no 
sooner  made  known  to  that  lady  than  it  was  gratified,  for 
we  received  an  invitation  to  luncheon  with  her  at  her  cha- 
teau in  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau.  See  us,  then,  arrive 
at  the  station,  where  a  carriage  waits,  the  coachman  ap- 


492  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

pearing  to  be  a  French  abbe.  The  driver  wore  a  black, 
broad-brimmed  hat  and  black  cloak,  and  had  long  white 
hair,  with  a  cheery,  rosy  face. 

"But  that  red  ribbon?"  said  I  to  Gambart.  "Do 
priests  wear  the  Legion  of  Honor  ?" 

"  Priest !"  replied  Gambart ;  "  what  priest  ?  That  is 
Mademoiselle  Bonheur.  She  is  one  of  the  very  few  ladies 
in  France  who  is  decoree.  You  can  speak  French;  get  on 
to  the  box  beside  her." 

Then,  chatting  delightfully,  we  were  driven  to  the  cha- 
teau, in  ancient  times  one  of  the  forest-keeper's  lodges, 
castellated  and  picturesque  to  the  last  degree  ;  date  about 
Louis  XIII.  There  lives  the  great  painter  with  a  lady 
companion  ;  and  others  in  the  form  of  boars,  lions,  and 
deer,  who  serve  as  models.  The  artist  had  little  or  noth- 
ing to  show  us  of  her  own  work.  Her  health  had  not 
been  good  of  late ;  besides,  when  her  "  work  is  done  it  is 
always  carried  off,"  she  said.  Stretching  along  one  side 
of  a  very  large  studio  was  a  composition  in  outline  of 
corn-threshing — in  Spain,  I  think — the  operation  being 
performed  by  horses,  which  are  made  to  gallop  over  the 
sheaves — a  magnificent  work,  begging  to  be  completed. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  lady,  looking  wistfully  at  the  huge  can- 
vas, "  I  don't  know  if  I  shall  ever  finish  that !" 

Of  course  Millais  was  deservedly  overwhelmed  with 
compliments,  and  I  came  in  for  my  little  share.  That  the 
luncheon  was  delightful  goes  without  saying.  One  inci- 
dent touched  me.  We  spoke  much  of  Landseer,  whose 
acquaintance  Rosa  Bonheur  had  made  on  a  visit  to  Eng- 
land, and  with  whose  work  she  had,  of  course,  great  sym- 
pathy. Gambart  repeated  to  her  some  words  of  praise 
given  by  Landseer  to  a  picture  of  hers  then  exhibiting  in 
London.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  listened.  I  can 
speak  no  more  of  female  painters  after  paying  an  imper- 
fect tribute  to  the  greatest  of  all,  so  that  with  that  immor- . 
tal  name  I  conclude  this  chapter  upon  lady  artists. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

PEOPLE   I    HAVE    KNOWN. 

IP  it  be  true  that  a  man  can  put  no  more  into  his  work 
than  there  is  in  himself,  it  is  also  undeniable  that  his  work 
— if  it  be  a  picture — will  betray  the  real  character  of  its 
author ;  who,  in  the  unconscious  development  of  his  pe- 
culiarities, constantly  presents  to  the  initiated  signs  by 
which  an  infallible  judgment  may  be  pronounced  on  the 
painter's  mind  and  character. 

If  an  artist  have  a  vulgar  mind,  his  work  will  be  vul- 
gar; if  he  be  of  a  shifty  and  untruthful  nature,  his  picture 
will  faithfully  reflect  these  faults.  We  know  Vandyke 
must  have  been  a  refined  and  courtly  gentleman,  as  surely 
as  we  are  convinced  that  Jan  Stein  was  the  jovial,  often 
drunken,  companion  of  the  guests  at  kermess  or  ale-house. 

Though  I  speak  under  correction  as  regards  authors 
and  books,  I  have  often  proved,  to  my  own  satisfaction, 
that  it  is  as  difficult  for  a  writer  to  hide  his  real  character 
when  he  employs  the  pen,  as  it  is  for  the  artist  to  be  false 
to  himself  when  he  uses  the  brush.  It  would,  however, 
require  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  some  celebrated 
persons — writers  and  others — to  discover  qualities  in  them 
which  their  published  performances  imperfectly  display. 

Among  "  men  I  have  known,"  the  late  Shirley  Brooks 
was  a  notable  example  of  a  man  whose  conversation  and 
private  correspondence  were  so  sparkling  and  delightful 
as  to  throw  his  novels,  admirable  as  they  are,  completely 
into  the  shade. 

As  an  example,  I  introduce  in  this  place  a  letter  written 
by  Brooks  in  the  name  of  Miss  Baynes,  the  landlady  of 
the  Granby  Hotel  at  Harrogatc.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  paragraph  alluded  to  was  fictitious.  The  "  early  pict- 
ures" were  some  of  my  first  efforts,  presented  to  Miss 


494  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Baynes  many  years  ago,  and  they  now  bang  on  the  walls 
of  the  Granby. 

"  DEAR  MR.  FRITH, — Not  being  well  able  to  write,  I  use  the  pen  of  our 
mutual  friend,  Mr.  S.  Brooks,  who  has  kindly  consented  to  convey  to  you  a 
request  which  I  have  hardly  the  courage  to  make.  But  your  kindness  in 
the  matter  of  your  early  pictures  emboldens  me  to  address  you. 

"  The  local  authorities  have  decided  that  all  the  hotels  in  Ilarrogatc 
shall  have  signs,  and  against  this  arbitrary  rule  we  have  petitioned  in  vain. 
The  enclosed  paragraph  shows  you  our  lamentable  case. 

"Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  paint  me  a  sign  for  the  Granby?  I 
should  take  it  very  well  of  you.  I  have  heard  from  a  friend  of  yours  that 
you  can  do  this  sort  of  thing  very  well,  and  if  you  have  any  difficulty  I  am 
sure  that  your  friend,  Mr.  E.  M.  Ward,  R.A.,  would  assist  you  with  advice 
and  example.  I  leave  the  subject  to  yourself,  but  I  need  hardly  say  that 
it  must  not  be  at  all  objectionable  in  a  moral  point  of  view,  as  the  visitors 
to  the  Granby  are  very  high-toned  about  virtue  and  grub.  If  you  did  not 
mind  (and  I  am  aware  that  I  may  offend  your  modesty,  which  is  one  of 
your  most  pleasing  characteristics)  painting  your  own  head  for  the  sign, 
I  should  be  very  glad,  and  it  would  be  a  good  advertisement  for  you  ;  but  if 
you  prefer  painting  any  other  Guy,  I  shall  be  equally  thankful.  Terms 
shall  not  separate  us,  and  if  you  would  like  to  come  and  reside  here  for  a 
fortnight,  as  soon  as  the  respectable  people  are  gone,  you  shall  be  treated 
as  one  of  the  family.  Then  you  could  hang  the  picture  yourself,  and  as 
you  have  lately  been  on  the  hanging  committee  I  shall  feel  much  confi- 
dence in  you. 

"  My  nieces  send  their  duty.  They  wish  the  sign  to  be  the  '  Queen 
Charlotte,'  in  honor  of  the  elder ;  but  you  may  not  like  this,  for  though 
her  features  are  very  charming,  they  are  not  what  you  would  call  Academ- 
ical. But,  if  you  come  down,  you  can  settle  this  with  her. 

"  I  must  not  trespass  longer  on  your  patience,  or  on  that  of  Mr.  Brooks, 
who  is  restless  to  get  away  and  smoke.  He  is  a  delightful  man,  and  1  am 
glad  that  you  now  choose  such  excellent  companions.  It  was  not  always 
so;  but  we  need  not  revert  to  the  follies  of  youth — we  have  all  been 
young. 

"  I  should  like  this  color  to  be  predominant  in  the  picture  I  ask  for ; 
and  I  am,  dear  Mr.  Frith, 

"  Yours  faithfully  and  sincerely, 

"  Miss  BAYNES." 

The  color  that  was  to  be  "  predominant  in  the  picture  " 
was  indicated  by  a  piece  of  bright  red  paper  attached  to 
the  letter. 

I  shrink  from  speaking  of  living  persons  ;  but,  having 
nothing  disagreeable  to  say  of  any  of  them,  I  hope  I  shall 
be  forgiven  for  introducing  their  names. 

Of  my  old  friend  George  Augustus  Sala  I  am  only  echo- 


PEOPLE   I   HAVE   KNOWX.  495 

ing  general  opinion  when  I  say  he  is  one  of  the  most  brill- 
iant and  accomplished  of  living  writers  and  talkers — wit- 
ness his  after-dinner  speeches,  scarcely  surpassed  by  Dick- 
ens, the  greatest  speaker  of  all. 

The  novels  of  Edmund  Yates  arc — or  have  been — in 
the  hands  of  most  people  ;  but  few,  speaking  compara- 
tively, can  have  experienced  the  ready  wit,  the  quick  re- 
tort, and  the  rest  of  his  admirable  dinner-table  talk  which 
it  has  fallen  to  my  happy  lot  to  share  on  innumerable  oc- 
casions. 

When  I  speak  of  Wilkic  Collins,  whom  I  have  known 
all  his  life,  I  shall  meet  with  no  contradiction  when  I  say 
he  is  one  of  the  most  popular  novelists  of  the  present  day. 
There  again  you  have  a  man  who  is  as  delightful  in  pri- 
vate as  he  is  in  public.  That  he  is  an  admirable  raconteur 
goes  without  saying;  of  an  imperturbably  good  temper, 
as  he  proved  on  one  occasion  at  my  own  table,  when  a 
rude  guest — of  whom  I  was  heartily  ashamed — after  de- 
claring that  popularity  was  no  proof  of  merit,  said  to  Col- 
lins by  way  of  example  : 

"  Why,  your  novels  are  read  in  every  back-kitchen  in 
England." 

This  Collins  heard  without  a  sign  of  irritation. 

On  the  same  occasion  that  dreadful  person  told  Shirley 
Brooks  (then  editor  of  Punch)  that,  of  all  the  papers  pub- 
lished in  London,  he  considered  launch  the  dullest 

"  I  wonder  you  ever  read  it,"  said  Brooks. 

"  I  never  do,"  was  the  reply. 

"I  was  sure  of  that,"  said  Brooks,  "by  your  foolish 
observation." 

I  need  scarcely  say  that  this  was  the  first  and  last  time 
that  my  disagreeable  guest  appeared  at  my  table.  But  I 
had  a  further  experience  of  his  unpleasantness.  He  wrote 
to  me  saying  he  had  purchased  a  collection  of  drawings 
by  the  old  masters;  and  though  —  knowing  his  dense 
ignorance  of  art — I  made  many  excuses  for  not  keeping 
appointments  to  see  them,  he  persisted  in  dragging  me  to 
his  hotel.  When  I  refused  to  believe  that  a  bad  Dutch 
drawing  of  a  "merry-making"  was  the  work  of  Raphael, 
and  that  another  wretched  thing  was  done  by  Michael 


496  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

Angelo,  he  told  me  that  painting  bad  modern  pictures  had 
completely  blinded  me,  and  that  he  should  show  me  no 
more  of  his  treasures.  I  was  thankful  to  see  the  last  of 
him  and  his  drawings  ;  and  I  afterwards  heard  that  he 
was  expelled  from  his  club,  where  he  had  succeeded  in 
insulting  every  member  of  it. 

From  this  disagreeable  "  man  I  have  known  "  I  turn  to 
Anthony  Trollope,  none  of  whose  works  I  had  read  till  a 
few  years  ago,  though  I  had  known  their  author  for  a  long 
time. 

I  must  confess  that  my  theory  of  men  and  their  resem- 
blance to  their  works  must  fall  to  the  ground  in  Trollope's 
case,  for  it  would  be  impossible  to  imagine  anything  less 
like  his  novels  than  the  author  of  them.  The  books,  full 
of  gentliftess,  grace,  and  refinement ;  the  writer  of  them, 
bluff,  loud,  stormy,  and  contentious  ;  neither  a  brilliant 
talker  nor  a  good  speaker;  but  a  kinder-hearted  man  and 
a  truer  friend  never  lived.  What  chance  his  works  have 
of  immortality  I  know  no  more  than  the  prophets  who  are 
forever  telling  us  that  A.'s  works  will  be  read  a  hundred 
years  hence,  and  B.'s  will  not.  Dr.  Johnson  said :  "  Sterne, 
sir?  why,  the  man  is  already  forgotten  !"  This  the  sage 
enounced  when  "Tristram  Shandy"  had  been  published, 
proving  himself  as  good — or  bad — a  prophet  as  the  rest  of 
them. 

I  now  come  to  another  living  author,  whose  name  I  sup- 
press, merely  adding  that  it  is  one  that  would  be  known 
to  all  my  readers.  My  acquaintance  with  this  gentleman 
was  brief,  as  I  shall  proceed  to  show. 

Those  who  have  had  the  honor  of  dining  at  the  Man- 
sion House  will  remember  that  the  lord  mayor,  attended 
by  certain  imposing  city  personages,  stands  in  an  outer 
gallery  to  receive  his  guests,  and  that  an  avenue  of  them 
soon  collects  to  watch  new-comers.  I  was  one  among  those 
who  formed  one  side  of  the  avenue,  when  a  gentleman  was 
brought  to  me  and  introduced.  The  figure  was  strange  to 
me,  but  the  name  very  familiar. 

"  Mr.  Frith,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  I  am  delighted  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  I  have  long  admired  your  works. 
Indeed  I  possess  several  of  them,  and  they  are  a  great  de- 


PEOPLE   I   HAVE   KNOWN.  497 

light  to  me"  (engravings,  I  thought);  "and  now  that  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you — as  we  are  neighbors — 
I  hope  we  shall  improve  our  acquaintance." 

I  made  the  inevitable  reply,  and  then  said  : 

"  I  had  no  idea  we  were  neighbors.  In  what  part  of 
Bayswater  do  you  live  ?" 

"  Bayswater !"  exclaimed  my  new  acquaintance.  "  Bays- 
water  !  I  don't  live  in  Bayswater.  I  live  at  Reigate.  So 
do  you." 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  don't.  I  never  was  at  Reigate  but 
once  in  my  life." 

"Why — how — what — are  you  not  Mr.  Frith,  the  photog- 
rapher?" 

"  No,"  said  I;  " I  have  not  that  honor." 

"  Who  are  you,  then  ?"  said  the  author,  rather  abruptly. 

"  I  am  only  an  artist — a  painter,"  said  I. 

"Indeed  !  Ah,  I  am  disap —  I  mean,  I  have  so  much 
desired  to  meet  your  namesake.  Do  you  happen  to  know 
who  that  is  who  has  just  shaken  hands  with  the  lord 
mayor  ?" 

It  was  quite  evident  that  the  author  did  not  know  my 
n.ime  as  an  artist,  which  I  flatter  myself  is  curious.  But 
this  experience  is  thrown  into  shade  by  that  of  a  highly- 
distinguished  fellow-artist,  as  the  following  story  suffi- 
ciently proves. 

In  my  student-days  at  the  Royal  Academy  there  was  a 
young  and  rather  clever  fellow  who  rejoiced  in  the  name 
of  Potherd.  He  was  a  lanky  lad,  and  he  wore  a  long  blue 
cloak  with  a  cat -skin  collar.  Millais  was  contemporary 
with  Potherd,  but  still  a  little  boy  when  Potherd  launched 
himself  into  the  world  as  a  full-fledged  painter.  No  one 
ever  heard  of  Potherd  as  an  artist,  but  everybody,  or 
nearly  everybody,  had  already  heard  of  Millais,  who  had 
painted  some  of  his  most  famous  works.  One  day  when 
Millais,  then  grown  into  manhood,  was  walking  somewhere 
in  Camden  Town,  he  saw  a  figure  in  a  long  blue  cloak  with 
a  cat-skin  collar,  trudging  slowly  along  before  him. 

"Surely,"  said  Millais  to  himself,  "I  know  that  cloak 
and  the  cat-skin  collar.  Can  the  man  be  Potherd?" 

Millais  quickened  his  pace  and  overtook  the  blue  cloak. 


498  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

"  Why,  Potherd,"  said  he,  "  it  is  you  !     How  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  pretty  well,"  said  Potherd.  "  And  who  may  you 
be?" 

"  I  am  Millais,"  said  the  painter.  "  Don't  you  remem- 
ber me  at  the  Academy  ?" 

"  Not  little  Johnny  Millais,  surely  ?"  exclaimed  Potherd. 
"  Why,  how  you  have  grown  !" 

"  Well,  Potherd,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  How 
are  you  getting  on  ?" 

"  Oh,  middling.  I  don't  find  it  a  very  good  business. 
I  teach  a  little,  and  do  a  portrait  now  and  then  when  I  can 
get  anybody  to  sit.  And  you  ?  Judging  from  your  ap- 
pearance, I  should  say  you  had  given  the  arts  the  go-by. 
What  do  you  do  for  a  living  ?" 

The  truth  of  this  may  be  relied  upon,  as  I  have  heard 
it  more  than  once  from  Millais  himself. 

My  pen  has  run  away  with  me,  as  usual.  I  return  to 
my  theme,  which  I  resume  in  the  name  of  Alfred  Austin, 
author  of  "  The  Season  "  and  other  works.  Among  con- 
versationalists Mr.  Austin  holds  high  rank,  and  readers  of 
"  The  Season  "  will  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that  there 
are  many  lines  in  that  satire  worthy  of  the  greatest  writers 
of  satirical  verse.  Being  nothing  of  a  politician  myself, 
I  find  it  difficult  to  understand  the  all-absorbing  passion 
that  possesses  some  men  in  the  discussion  and  advocacy  of 
political  questions,  and  when — as  I  venture  to  think  in  the 
example  of  my  friend — a  remarkable  intellect  is  allowed 
to  spend  itself  in  leading  articles,  however  brilliant,  or  in 
essays,  however  closely  argued,  on  questions  of  the  hour, 
a  serious  loss  to  the  higher  forms  of  literature  is  the  result. 
I  still  look  to  Alfred  Austin  for  poetic  work,  either  in 
prose  or  rhyme,  that  will  realize  all  the  promise  foreshad- 
owed by  "The  Season." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  discover  a  man  more  fitted  in  all 
respects  for  the  editorial  chair  of  Punch  than  Mr.  F.  C. 
Burnand.  Possessing  the  satiric  power  that  overflows  Mr. 
Austin's  "Season, ".Mr.  Burnand  is  also  eminently  distin- 
guished as  a  humorist.  I  cannot  boast  of  intimacy  with  the 
editor  of  Punch,  but  I  have  met  him  very  often,  and  as 
often  with  delightfully  amusing  results.  On  one  occasion 


PEOPLE   I   HAVE   KNOWN.  499 

I  described  to  him  a  dinner-party  at  the  Langham  Hotel, 
given  by  that  bright  genius,  "  Ouida,"  at  which — as,  in- 
deed, at  several  others — I  had  the  honor  of  assisting.  The 
dinner  and  the  company  were  delightful.  One  charm  of 
it,  to  me  (being,  I  regret  to  say,  an  inveterate  smoker), 
was  the  introduction  of  cigarettes  during  the  course  of 
the  dinner,  beginning,  I  think,  after  the  fish.  I  had  heard 
of  the  fashion  in  foreign  countries,  but  it  surprised  me  as 
occurring  in  England. 

"  Why  were  you  surprised  ?"  said  Burnand.  "  You  were 
dining  with  a  Weeda." 

Of  all  the  men  I  have  known,  none  dwells  more  pleas- 
antly in  my  memory  than  Samuel  Lover,  painter,  poet, 
playwright,  and  public  entertainer.  Many  were  the  even- 
ings at  ray  house  that  were  made  to  pass  on  rosy  wing  by 
the  good  stories,  and  still  better  playing  and  singing,  of 
Lover.  For  some  years  the  miniature-room  of  the  Acad- 
emy was  enriched  by  the  works  of  that  universal  genius. 
My  first  sight  of  Lover  was  in  the  year  1843,  when  he 
came  to  see  my  picture  of  "Falstaff  and  his  Friends." 
Plays  by  him  were  being  acted  at  two  or  three  theatres, 
novels  and  songs  were  produced  with  extraordinary  rapid- 
ity, and  still  time — and  much  of  it — was  found  for  the 
production  of  excellent  miniatures,  one  of  those  being 
shown  to  me  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit. 

"  How  you  can  find  time  for  all  you  do,"  said  I,  "  I  can- 
not imagine." 

"  Well,  it  is  not  generally  known,"  said  Lover,  "  but 
the  truth  is,  the  fairies  help  me." 

In  the  -year  1850  I  was  at  work  sketching  from  the 
rooms  and  pictures  at  Knole  House.  It  was  said  that  the 
housekeeper  received  small  wages,  if  any,  as  the  great 
number  of  visitors — then  permitted  to  visit  the  house  and 
its  treasures — were  supposed  to  contribute  enough  to  make 
a  satisfactory  salary  for  that  functionary.  I  well  remem- 
ber being  disturbed  in  my  work  by  a  gentleman  and  two 
ladies.  The  gentleman  was  Count  d'Orsay;  one  of  the 
ladies  was  Lady  Blessington,  and  the  other  her  niece,  I 
think,  Miss  Power.  There  are  many  ways  of  being  known, 
one  being  "  known  by  sight."  Thk  is  the  only  knowledge 


500  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND    REMINISCENCES. 

I  possess  of  Count  d'Orsay ;  but  I  hope  the  following  story, 
told  me  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  will  be  accepted  as  an 
excuse  for  introducing  the  count  among  "people  I  have 
known."  D'Orsay  was  remarkably  handsome,  and  as  ex- 
travagant as  he  was  good-looking.  The  result  of  the 
former  advantage  was  a  danger  to  the  heart  of  every  lady 
that  approached  him,  and  the  consequence  of  the  latter 
was  imprisonment  in  Gore  House  on  every  day  but  Sun- 
day. Arrest  for  debt  was  in  full  swing  in  D'Orsay 's  time. 
His  "  constitutional,"  therefore,  was  taken  in  the  gardens 
of  the  mansion  on  week-days,  and  anywhere  abroad  on 
Sundays.  The  count  was  an  accomplished  man,  notably 
as  an  artist ;  his  practice  being  chiefly  in  portraits,  among 
which  were  likenesses  of  the  queen  and  the  great  Duke 
of  Wellington.  The  queen  was  represented  on  horseback, 
and  the  picture  was  received  with  so  much  favor  that  an 
engraving  was  made  from  it.  Before  a  copy  of  a  picture 
in  any  style  of  engraving  can  be  accepted  by  a  publisher 
it  must  receive  revision  and  what  is  technically  called 
"  touching  "  by  the  producer  of  the  picture  from  which  it 
is  made  ;  and  here  arose  a  great  difficulty.  The  engraver 
would  not  submit  his  work  for  scrutiny  on  a  Sunday,  and 
D'Orsay's  delicate  position  prevented  his  seeing  it  on  any 
other  day. 

"My  dear  Edwin,"  said  he  to  Landseer,  "what  am  I  to 
do?  the  publisher  will  not  pay  me  for  the  copyright  till  I 
have  touched  the  proofs ;  and  this  miserable  engraver  re- 
fuses to  receive  me  on  a  Sunday." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  a  disguise,"  said  Landseer. 
"  Wrap  yourself  well  up ;  come  and  breakfast  with  me 
some  morning,  and  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  engraver." 

A  time  was  fixed  ;  and  the  count,  with  much  misgiving, 
and  his  face  half  hidden  by  a  neckerchief,  left  the  secure 
refuge  of  Gore  House,  and  arrived  in  safety  at  Landseer's 
in  St.  John's  Wood  Road.  The  breakfast  was  very  gay ; 
each  additional  moment  of  security  raised  D'Orsay's  spirits 
higher.  The  engraving  was  criticised,  and  the  "touch- 
ing" satisfactorily 'effected.  Gayer  and  gayer  grew  the 
count. 

"  My  dear  Edwin,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  see  something ; 


PEOPLE    I    HAVE    KNOWN.  501 

'tis  long — ah  !  how  long  ! — since  I  have  seen  any  public 
entertainment.     Where  can  we  go?     What  can  we  see?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Landseer,  looking  at  his  watch ; 
"  what  can  be  seen  at  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day  ?"  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  Madame  Tus- 
saud's." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  count,  "admirable!  The  wax- 
works— I  have  never  seen  them." 

And  to  Baker  Street  went  the  two  adventurers. 

D'Orsay's  delight  was  childlike,  but  brief.  They  had 
not  been  long  in  the  rooms  before  D'Orsay  touched  Land- 
seer's  arm  to  draw  his  attention  to  two  men  who,  at  a  little 
distance,  were  evidently  watching  the  count  and  his  friend. 

D'Orsay  was  very  pale  as  he  said  : 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  '  Chamber  of  Horrors.' " 

The  extra  sixpences  were  paid  ;  but  before  the  waxen, 
murderers  could  be  discussed  the  two  strangers  seemed  to 
have  paid  their  sixpences  also,  and  were  close  to  the  count, 
when  one  of  them,  politely  removing  his  hat,  inquired  if 
he  had  the  honor  of  addressing  Count  d'Orsay. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  in  a  dignified  tone,  and  drawing  himself 
•up  to  his  full  height,  "I  am  Count  d'Orsay." 

"My  lord,"  said  the  man,  "Madame  Tussaud,  the  old 
lady  which  your  lordship  saw  as  you  came  in — " 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  count,  in  tremulous  tones,  "what 
of  the  lady  ?" 

"  She  has  sent  me  to  ask  if  you  would  do  her  the  honor- 
to  let  her  model  you  in  wax  ?" 

"In  wax!"  exclaimed  the  count;  "in  marble,  bronze, 
iron,  my  good  fellow.  Tell  her,  with  my  love,  she  may 
model  me  in  anything  !" 

Yet  another  D'Orsay  story,  which  I  heard  from  Dr. 
Herring  : 

On  the  few  halcyon  days  on  which  Count  d'Orsay  could 
move  about  without  fear  of  arrest,  he  was  generally  ac- 
companied by  a  huge  dog  of  a  somewhat  fierce  disposition. 
This  animal  was  possessed  of  intelligence  superior  to  most 
dogs. 

"He  knows  quite  well,"  said  the  count,  "the  different 
classes  of  railway  carriages,  and  always  insists  on  travel- 


502  MY  AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

ling  in  the  first.  Oh,  yes,  I  always  take  a  dog-ticket,  as  he 
knows  quite  well ;  but  he  objects  to  the  '  coffin,' "  as  D'Or- 
say  called  the  dog-compartment.  "The  other  day,"  he 
continued,  "  I  was  sitting  in  my  place  waiting  for  the  train 
to  start,  with  Hector  on  the  seat  next  to  me,  when  the 
guard  poked  in  his  head  and  said: 

" '  That  dog  must  not  be  there,  sir.  Have  you  got  a 
ticket  for  him  ?' 

"  'Yes;  here  it  is.' 

"  '  But  there  is  a  place  in  the  van  for  dogs,  and  he  must 
go  to  it.' 

" '  Take  him,  then,'  said  I. 

"The  man  with  great  courage  attempted  to  seize  my 

Hector,  who,  with  a  snarl  that  appalled  that  brave  guard, 

snapped  at  his  hand,  and  would  have  eaten  it  in  another 

^moment  if  the  train  had  not  started  on  the  instant.     And 

Hector  rode  once  more  first-class  at  cofecn  praice." 

This  story  fails  somewhat  for  the  want  of  the  delight- 
ful broken-English  in  which  Herring  used  to  tell  it. 

Actors  must  now  appear  among  the  "people  I  have 
known."  And  first  and  foremost  in  all  respects  is  Miss 
Ellen  Terry,  whose  kind  patience  in  sitting  for  the  picture 
of  "  The  Private  View  "  I  shall  ever  gratefully  remember. 
The  merits  of  this  lady  are  so  patent  to  the  world  as  to 
need  no  eulogy  from  me. 

Delightful  as  was  Miss  Terry's  Juliet,  the  nurse  of  Mrs. 
Stirling  was  no  less  perfect.  I  am  old  enough  to  remember 
the  first  performances  of  "  Masks  and  Faces,"  when  Mrs. 
Stirling,  as  Peg  Woffington,  was  in  the  prime  of  her  beauty 
and  at  the  height  of  powers  that  have  never  decayed,  as 
those  who  saw  her  last  performances  can  bear  witness. 
This  excellent  actress  threatens  to  leave  the  stage.  If  she 
should  refuse  to  listen  to  those  who  hear  of  this  resolve 
with  great  regret,  she  will  all  too  soon  become  a  memory, 
and  make  a  vacancy  that  cannot  be  filled. 

Age  has  few  charms,  but  among  them  may  be  reckoned 
the  pleasures  of  memory;  and  who  that  has  seen  Mrs. 
Keeley  (who  is  still,  happily,  with  us)  in  the  Sniike  of 
"Nicholas  Nickleby,"  or  the  house-breaker  in  "Jack 
Sheppard,"  to  say  nothing  of  other  and  numberless  char- 


PEOPLE   I    HA  V  K   KNOWN.  503 

actcrs,  can  ever  forget  the  perfect  truth  to  nature  dis- 
played in  every  part  she  acted. 

What  Mrs.  Keeley's  age  may  be  I  shall  not  be  so  rude 
as  to  inquire ;  that  "  age  cannot  wither  her  "  was  evident 
to  me  when  I  saw  her  the  other  day,  looking  exactly  as 
she  did  thirty  years  ago. 

Others  I  knew  but  "by  sight"  only,  namely,  Mrs. 
Warner,  Mrs.  Orger,  Mrs.  Kean,  Mrs.  Honey — and  what 
inimitable  actresses  were  they ! 

With  Mrs.  Bancroft  I  have  the  honor  of  a  slight  per- 
sonal acquaintance.  Off  the  stage  she  is  delightful ;  on  it, 
absolute  perfection. 

As  a  rule,  I  venture  to  say  that  amateur  acting  is  like 
amateur  painting — simply  intolerable.  There  are  brilliant 
exceptions  ;  notably  in  the  instances  of  Dickens  and  Lady 
Monckton,  who,  great  as  she  is  now — witness  her  unsur- 
passable performance  in  "Jim  the  Penman" — was  but  an 
amateur  the  other  day,  when  she  must  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing that  I  could  see  but  little  sign  of  the  bud  which  has 
since  blossomed  so  abundantly. 

I  see  that  my  old  friend  Miss  Braddon  has  just  finished 
her  fiftieth,  or,  as  her  publishers  call  it,  her  "Jubilee" 
novel.  Among  all  the  "  people  I  have  known,"  I  think  of 
no  one  with  greater  pleasure  than  Miss  Braddon  ;  because 
I  have  derived  infinite  amusement  from  her  works,  and  as 
much  satisfaction  from  her  personal  acquaintance  as  I 
have  from  that  of  any  other  authoress.  I  had  the  honor 
of  painting  her  portrait  for  her  husband  and  publisher, 
Mr.  Maxwell. 

I  don't  know  whether  she  still  follows  the  practice  of 
making  drawings  of  the  intended  scenes  in  her  novels  be- 
fore she  brings  them  so  vividly  before  us  with  her  pen ; 
but  I  well  remember  her  showing  me  several  pen-and-ink 
sketches  of  scenes  in  "  Lady  Audley's  Secret " — notably  a 
drawing  of  the  man  who  is  thrown  down  the  well :  his 
boots  only  and  small  portions  of  his  legs  being  visible. 
The  prodigious  industry  of  this  author,  and  the  infinite 
variety  of  her  plots  and  incidents,  astonish  such  ignorant 
people  as  the  present  writer. 

Miss  Braddon — or,  to  give  her  her  proper  name,  Mrs. 


504  MY    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Maxwell — has  kindly  made  suggestions  for  subjects  for 
pictures  to  me  on  many  occasions ;  and  I  often  regret  that 
I  did  uot  adopt  one  of  them. 

Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  whose  Irish  stories  were — and  perhaps 
are  still — very  popular,  comes  well  among  authoresses 
known  to  me ;  and  many  is  the  pleasant  evening  that  I 
spent  at  the  pretty  little  cottage  in  Brompton  called  The 
Rosery.  It  was  there,  on  a  very  hot  night  in  the  height 
of  the  London  season,  that  I  saw — for  the  only  time  in 
my  life — a  lion  thoroughly  lionized.  The  lion  was  Tom 
Moore,  the  poet ;  and  the  lionizers,  consisting  chiefly  of 
ladies,  clustered  round  the  little  man  and  nearly  smothered 
him.  Moore  was  so  diminutive  that  I  could  scarcely  see 
his  small,  gasping  mouth,  which  in  its  efforts  to  inhale  the 
dreadful  atmosphere,  reminded  me  of  a  fish  out  of  water. 
No  wonder  that  he  lost  one  of  his  shoes ;  and  it  was  "  a 
sight "  to  see  him  sitting,  like  one  of  Cinderella's  sisters, 
while  a  very  pretty  admirer  insisted  on  replacing  the  shoe 
on  his  little  foot. 

I  have  known  lions  since  Moore's  days  whose  roars  I 
prefer  to  those  of  the  poet ;  and  prominent  among  them 
was  Charles  Dickens,  whose  dislike  of  being  made  an  ob- 
ject of  special  mark  in  any  company  was  so  well  known 
that  it  would  have  required  lionizers  to  have  been  as  bold 
as  lions,  if  they  had  ventured  to  risk  the  reception  which 
the  younger  author  would  have  assuredly  given  them  if 
they  had  treated  him  d  la  Moore. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  Mademoiselle  de  la  Rame, 
otherwise  "  Ouida  ;"  but  I  have  not  noticed  an  accomplish- 
ment which  may  not  be  generally  known  to  be  possessed 
by  that  lady.  "  Ouida  "  is  an  excellent  artist,  as  many  of 
her  drawings,  hanging  on  the  walls  of  her  rooms  in  the 
Langham  Hotel,  sufficiently  proved  to  me.  They  were 
indeed  remarkable  specimens  of  amateur  work. 

I  was  curious  to  know  the  origin  of  the  famous  name 
under  which  this  lady  writes,  and  it  is  interesting,  I  think, 
to  find  that  it  arises  from  a  child's  attempt  to  say  "Louisa," 
just  as  the  immortal  "Boz"  was  adopted  from  another  in- 
fantine attempt  to  say  "Moses."  My  information  with 
respect  to  "  Ouida  "  came  from  "  Ouida  "  herself,  of  whom 


PEOPLE    I    HAVE    KNOWN.  505 

I  saw  a  good  deal  some  years  ago,  before  she  left  the  fogs 
of  England  for  the  sunshine  of  Italy. 

One  of  the  most  original  and  attractive  writers  of  the 
present  day — whom  I  have  the  pleasure  and  the  right 
to  name  among  those  I  know — is  Miss  Rhoda  Broughton. 
I  have  read  all  her  novels,  and  I  have  passed  some  days 
in  her  society  in  a  country-house  and  in  my  own,  and  I 
can  assure  those  who  know  the  lady's  works,  but  not  the 
author  of  them,  that  this  writer  is  just  as  delightful  with- 
out the  pen  as  she  is  with  it — brilliant  and  incisive  in  con- 
versation ;  never  dull  or  the  cause  of  dulness  in  others  ;  in 
short,  a  perfect  instance  of  the  truth  of  my  theory  that  the 
real  nature  of  the  woman  or  the  man  appears  in  her  or  his 
work. 

Of  Mrs.  Henry  Wood  I  knew  so  little  (she  dined  but 
once,  I  think,  at  my  house),  and  that  little  would  be  as 
nothing  in  support  of  my  pet  idea,  that  I  must  content 
myself  with  an  expression  of  gratitude  for  the  pleasure  I 
have  received  from — I  am  sorry  to  say — the  few  books  I 
have  read  of  hers.  With  "  East  Lynne  "  I  was  enthralled 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  From  what  Mrs.  Wood 
told  me  of  the  great  sale  of  her  books,  it  is  evident  that 
she  is  one  of  the  most  popular  of  our  modern  novelists. 

"  All  the  world's  a  stage,"  and  to  some  actors  the  stage 
is  all  the  world.  I  confess  that  in  some  few  instances  the 
admiration  that  an  actor  has  excited  in  me  by  his  perform- 
ance on  the  stage  has  been  succeeded  by  disappointment 
when  I  have  met  him  in  private  life.  It  seems  as  if  all 
the  beautiful  language,  and  all  that  the  language  means, 
has  fallen  from  his  lips  without  having  penetrated  his 
brain,  for  his  conversation  is  prosy  and  commonplace.  He 
is,  in  fact,  "  dull  company."  Among  those  I  have  known 
these  are  rare  exceptions.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are 
actors,  and  actresses  too,  who  are  as  entertaining  off  the 
stage  as  they  are  on  it.  My  old  friend  Toole  is  one;  for, 
funny  as  he  is  when  in  sock  and  buskin,  he  is  funnier  still 
at  a  dinner-table.  What  stories  of  his  could  I  repeat,  if  I 
could  tell  them  as  well  as  he  does!  Alas!  they  are  public 
property,  and  I  must  not  touch  them.  I  hope  I  shall  not 
offend  my  friend  when  I  announce  that  he  is  a  practical 
22 


506  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY   AND    REMINISCENCES. 

joker;  but  his  jokes  are  harmless  —  unlike  some  others 
that  I  have  named — and  always  amusing.  It  is  told  of 
him  that  he  was  seen,  at  the  close  of  a  railway  journey, 
to  be  going  through  a  performance  with  one  of  his  gloves, 
which,  on  a  close  observation,  appeared  to  be  the  stuffing 
it  with  cotton- wool  till  it  assumed  the  shape  of  a  human 
hand.  He  then  contrived  to  arrange  it  in  the  front  of  his 
coat,  so  that  it  should  appear  to  be  one  of  his  own,  and  he 
placed  his  railway  ticket  between  the  fingers.  The  train 
stopped  presently,  and  the  usual  cry,  "  All  tickets  ready  1" 
was  heard. 

"  Tickets,  please  !"  said  a  guard,  opening  the  door  of  the 
carriage. 

"  Take  mine,"  said  Toole. 

The  guard  took  the  ticket,  and  the  hand  as  well. 

"  The  guard  was  a  robust  person,"  Toole  is  reported  to 
have  said,  "  but  he  staggered  back  in  a  faint,  calling  fee- 
bly for  smelling-salts." 

One  more  example.  That  inveterate  joker,  Sothern, 
had  made  an  appointment  with  Toole  to  dine  at  a  well- 
known  restaurant;  the  hour  of  meeting  was  fixed,  and 
Sothern  arrived  somewhat  before  the  appointed  time.  An 
old  gentleman  was  dining  at  a  table  at  some  little  distance 
from  that  prepared  for  the  two  actors.  He  was  reading 
the  paper,  which  he  had  comfortably  arranged  before  him, 
as  he  was  eating  his  dinner.  Sothern  walked  up  to  him, 
and,  striking  him  a  smart  blow  between  the  shoulders,  said  : 

"  Hullo,  old  fellow !  who  would  have  thought  of  your 
dining  here  ?  I  thought  you  never — " 

The  assaulted  diner  turned  angrily  round,  when  Sothern 
exclaimed : 

"  I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons,  sir !  I  thought  you 
were  an  old  friend  of  mine — a  family  man — whom  I  never 
expected  to  see  here.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me." 

The  old  gentleman  growled  a  reply,  and  Sothern  re- 
turned to  his  table,  where  he  was  presently  joined  by 
Toole,  to  whom  he  said : 

"  See  that  old  boy  ?  I'll  bet  you  half  a  crown  you  daren't 
go  and  give  him  a  slap  on  the  back,  and  pretend  you  have 
mistaken  him  for  a  friend." 


PEOPLE    I    HAVE    KNOWN.  507 

"  Done  !"  said  Toole,  and  done  it  was  immediately,  with 
a  result  that  must  be  imagined,  for  it  was  indescribable. 

Forgive  me,  dear  Toole,  and  don't  deny  these  things; 
for  if  they  are  not  true,  they  ought  to  be. 

I  now  come  to  one  who  is  as  much  liked  as  a  man  as 
he  is  admired  as  an  actor — Henry  Irving.  Well  do  I 
remember  seeing  my  friend  in  a  play  called  "Hunted 
Down,"  and  saying  to  my  wife,  who  was  with  me,  "  That 
is  the  real  thing.  That  man  is  a  genius."  And  I  was 
right.  If  I  were  to  relate  a  tithe  of  the  kind  actions  of 
Irving  to  his  brother-actors,  to  friends,  and  to  strangers,  I 
should  show  him  to  be  as  good  a  man  off  the  stage  as  he 
is  a  great  one  upon  it;  but  I  spare  his  blushes  and  the 
patience  of  my  readers. 

Common  gratitude  forces  me  to  add  one  more  name 
to  the  list  of  those  from  whom  I  have  received  so  much 
pleasure.  William  Farren,  worthy  heir  of  a  great  name, 
is  one  of  those  who  have  so  often  delighted  me  by  their 
admirable  rendering  of  "  high  comedy,"  that  I  cannot  resist 
telling  him  here  what  I  have  felt  compelled  to  tell  him 
privately.  The  best  "Sir  Peter  Teazle"  and  the  best 
"  Lord  Ogleby  "  is,  of  course,  pre-eminent  in  minor  char- 
acters. 

And  with  this  honored  name  I  close  the  list  of  "  people 
I  have  known,"  not  without  a  fear  that  my  readers  will 
endorse  the  following  verse,  sent  to  me  by  Shirley  Brooks, 
the  editor  of  Punch,  in  return  for  a  good  joke  that  I  sent 
to  him  for  insertion  in  that  periodical : 

"  There  is  a  young  artist  called  Frith, 

His  pictures  have  vigor  and  pith  ; 

But  his  writings  have  not — 

They're  the  kussedeat  rot 

He  could  trouble  an  editor  with." 

I  cannot  surmount  the  reluctance  I  feel  to  dwell  longer 
on  my  own  doings.  Good  or  bad,  those  of  the  last  yean 
are  familiar  to  all  who  have  done  me  the  honor  to  seek  out 
my  work  in  the  annual  exhibitions. 

A  new  style  of  art  has  arisen,  which  seems  to  gratify  a 
public  ever  craving  for  novelty.  Very  likely  I  am  posing 
as  the  old-fashioned  academician,  who  declines  to  acknowl- 


508  MY   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    AXD    BEMINISCENCES. 

edge  that  eccentricity  is  a  proof  of  genius,  or  audacity  an 
evidence  of  power;  and  I  may  be  justly,  or  unjustly,  ac- 
cused of  unfairness  when  I  declare  that  the  bizarre,  French, 
"impressionist"  style  of  painting  recently  imported  into 
this  country  will  do  incalculable  damage  to  the  modern 
school  of  English  art.  But  I  claim  the  right  of  judgment 
that  half  a  century's  constant  practice  of  my  art  must  give, 
and  I  wish  the  last  words  of  these  reminiscences  to  be 
those  of  warning  to  the  rising  generation  of  painters. 

Be  impressionist  by  all  means,  but  let  your  impressions 
be  as  complete  and  as  true  to  nature  as  those  received  by 
the  great  old  masters.  Let  it  not  be  possible  for  any  one 
to  say  of  your  impressions,  as  was  well  said  of  some  im- 
pressionist work  now  popular,  "If  nature  made  that  im- 
pression upon  the  man,  how  much  wiser  he  would  have 
been  if  he  had  kept  it  to  himself."  Keep  in  view  the 
honored  names  of  the  great  painters  of  old,  study  their 
works,  and,  convincing  yourselves  that  they  were  produced 
by  simple,  earnest,  loving  study  of  nature,  endeavor  to 
"go  and  do  likewise." 


THE   END. 


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Years'  Truce— 1584-1609.  With  a  full  View  of  the  English-Dutch 
Struggle  against  Spain,  and  of  the  Origin  and  Destruction  of  the 
Spanish  Armada.  By  JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L. 
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DU  CHAILLU'S  LAND  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  SUN.  Summer 
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LOSSING'S  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  UNITED  STATES  HISTORY. 
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STANLEY'S  THROUGH  THE  DARK  CONTINENT.  Through 
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Lakes  of  Equatorial  Africa,  and  Down  the  Livingstone  River  to  the 
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ENGLISH    MEN   OF   LETTERS.      Edited   by  Joiis   MORLKT. 
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REBER'S  MEDIAEVAL  ART.  History  of  Mediaeval  Art.  By  Dr. 
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VAN-LENNEP'S  BIBLE  LANDS.  Bible  Lands:  their  Modern  Cus- 
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CESNOLA'S  CYPRUS.  Cyprus:  its  Ancient  Cities,  Tombs,  and 
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Years'  Residence  in  that  Island.  By  L.  P.  DI  CKSNOLA.  With 
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SHORT'S  NORTH  AMERICANS  OF  ANTIQUITY.  The  North 
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QUOTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.  12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $18  00; 
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BAKER'S  ISMAILIA  :  a  Narrative  of  the  Expedition  to  Central  Af- 
rica for  the  Suppression  of  the  Slave  -  trade,  organized  by  Ismail, 
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LIVINGSTONE'S  ZAMBESI.  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to  the 
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LIVINGSTONE'S  LAST  JOURNALS.  The  Last  Journals  of  Da- 
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BLAIKIE'S  LIFE  OF  DAVID  LIVINGSTONE.  Memoir  of  his 
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COLERIDGE'S  WORKS.  The  Complete  Works  of  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge.  With  an  Introductory  E^say  upon  his  Philosophical  and 
Theological  Opinions.  Edited  by  Professor  W.  G.  T.  SHEDD.  With 
Steel  Portrait,  and  an  Index.  7  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00  per  vol- 
ume ;  $12  00  per  set;  Half  Calf,  $24  25. 


1'alualle  TTorkt  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries.  7 

GKIFFIS'S  JAPAN.  The  Mikado's  Empire:  Book  I.  History  of 
Japan,  from  660  B.C.  to  1872  A.D.  Book  II.  Personal  Experiences, 
Observations,  and  Studies  in  Japan,  from  1870  to  1874.  With  Two 
Supplementary  Chapters:  Japan  in  1883,  and  Japan  in  1886.  By 
W.  E.  GIUFFIB.  Copiously  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00 ;  Half  Calf, 
$625. 

SMILES'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS.  The  Huguenots: 
their  Settlements,  Churches,  and  Industries  in  England  and  Ireland. 
By  SAMUEL  SMILES.  With  an  Appendix  relating  to  the  Huguenots 
in  America.  Crown,  8ro,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

SMILES'S  HUGUENOTS  AFTER  THE  REVOCATION.  The  Hu- 
guenots in  France  after  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes;  with 
a  Visit  to  the  Country  of  the  Vaudois.  By  SAMUEL  SMILES.  Crown 
8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

SMILES'S  LIFE  OF  THE  STEPHENSONS.  The  Life  of  George 
Stephenson,  and  of  his  Son,  Robert  Stephenson ;  comprising,  also,  a 
History  of  the  Invention  and  Introduction  of  the  Railway  Locomo- 
tive. By  SAMUEL  SMILES.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  SCOTLAND :  From  the  Earliest 
to  the  Present  Time.  Comprising  Characteristic  Selections  from 
the  Works  of  the  more  Noteworthy  Scottish  Poets,  with  Biographi- 
cal and  Critical  Notices.  By  JAMES  GRANT  WILSON.  With  Por- 
traits on  Steel.  2  vols.,  8ro,  Cloth,  $10  00;  Gilt  Edges,  $11  00. 

SCHLIEMANN'S  ILIOS.  Ilios,  the  City  and  Country  of  the  Trojans. 
A  Narrative  of  the  Most  Recent  Discoveries  and  Researches  made 
on  the  Plain  of  Troy.  By  Dr.  HENRY  Sen  LI  KM  ANN.  Maps,  Plans, 
and  Illustrations.  Imperial  8vo,  Illuminated  Cloth,  $12  00;  Half 
Morocco,  $15  00. 

SCHLIEMANN'S  TROJA.  Troja.  Results  of  the  Latest  Researches 
and  Discoveries  on  the  Site  of  Homer's  Troy,  and  in  the  Heroic  Tu- 
muli and  other  Sites,  made  in  the  Year  1882,  and  a  Narrative  of  a 
Journey  in  theTroad  in  1881.  By  Dr.  HKNBT  SCHLIEMANN.  Pref- 
ace by  Professor  A.  II.  Sayce.  With  Wood-cuts,  Maps,  and  Plans. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $7  50;  Half  Morocco,  OlO  00. 

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from  1868  to  1871.  By  GEORO  SCHWEINFURTH.  Translated  by 
ELLEN  E.  FRKWEB.  Illustrated.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $8  00. 

NORTON'S  STUDIES  OF  CHURCH-BUILDING.  Historical  Stud- 
ies of  Church-Building  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Venice,  Siena,  Flor- 
ence. By  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 


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THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  "  CHALLENGER."  The  Atlantic  :  an 
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Early  Part  of  1876.  By  Sir  WYVILLE  THOMSON,  K.C.B.,  F.R.S. 
Illustrated.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

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QUEENS  OF  ENGLAND. — ANCIENT  HISTORY  OF  THE  EAST. — HAL- 
LAM'S  MIDDLE  AGES.  —  HALLAM'S  CONSTITUTIONAL  HISTORY  OF 
ENGLAND. —  LYELL'S  ELEMENTS  OF  GEOLOGY. —  MERIVALE'S  GEN- 
ERAL HISTORY  OF  ROME.  —  Cox's  GENERAL  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 
— CLASSICAL  DICTIONARY. — SKEAT'S  ETYMOLOGICAL  DICTIONARY. — 
RAWLINSON'S  ANCIENT  HISTORY.  $1  25  per  volume. 

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Vols. — HUMK'S  ENGLAND. — MODERN  EUROPE.     $1  50  per  volume. 
WESTCOTT  AND  HORT'S  GREEK  TESTAMENT,  $1  00. 

THOMSON'S  SOUTHERN  PALESTINE  AND  JERUSALEM. 
Southern  Palestine  and  "Jerusalem.  Biblical  Illustrations  drawn 
from  the  Manners  and  Customs,  the  Scenes  and  Scenery,  of  the 
Holy  Land.  By  W.  M.  THOMSON,  D.D.  140  Illustrations  and 
Maps.  Square  8vo,  Cloth,  $6  00 ;  Sheep,  $7  00 ;  Half  Morocco, 
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tral Palestine  and  Phoenicia.  Biblical  Illustrations  drawn  from  the 
Manners  and  Customs,  the  Scenes  and  Scenery,  of  the  Holy  Land. 
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Cloth,  $6  00 ;  Sheep,  $7  00  ;  Half  Morocco,  $8  50 ;  Full  Morocco, 
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THOMSON'S  LEBANON,  DAMASCUS,  AND  BEYOND  JORDAN. 

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from  the  Manners  and  Customs,  the  Scenes  and  Scenery,  of  the  Holy 
Land.  By  W.  M.  THOMSON,  D.D.  147  Illustrations  and  Maps. 
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Politics.  By  DORMAN  B.  EATON.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 


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CAMERON'S  ACROSS  AFRICA.    Across  Africa.    By  VBRMKT  LOT- 

BTT  CAMERON.     Map  and  Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  History  of  Friedrich 
II.,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  THOMAS  CABLTLB.  Portraits, 
Maps  Plans,  &c.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $7  50  ;  Sheep,  $9  90;  Half 
Calf,  $18  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The  French  Revolution : 
a  History.  By  THOMAS  CARLYLB.  2  vols.,  12tno,  Cloth,  $2  60; 
Sheep,  $2  90  ;  Half  Calf,  $4  25. 

CARLYLE'S  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  Oliver  Cromwell's  Letters 
and  Speeches,  including  the  Supplement  to  the  First  Edition.  With 
Elucidations.  By  THOMAS  CARLTLB.  2  vols.,  I2mo,  Cloth,  f  2  50 ; 
Sheep,  $2  90 ;  Half  Calf,  $4  25. 

PAST  AND  PRESENT,  CHARTISM,  AND  SARTOR  RESARTUS. 
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EARLY  KINGS  OF  NORWAY,  AND  THE  PORTRAITS  OF  JOHN 
KNOX.  By  THOMAS  CARLTLK.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

REMINISCENCES  BY  THOMAS  CARLYLE.  Edited  hy  J.  A. 
FROUDE.  12mo,  Cloth,  with  Copious  Index,  and  with  Thirteen  Por- 
traits, 50  cents. 

FROUDE'S  LIFE  OF  THOMAS  CARLYLE.  PART  I.  A  History 
of  the  First  Forty  Years  of  Carlyle's  Life  (1795-1835).  By  JAMES 
ANTHONY  FROUDB,  M.A.  With  Portraits  and  Illustrations.  2  vol- 
umes in  one,  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

PART  II.  A  History  of  Carlyle's  Life  in  London  (1834-1881).  By 
JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDB.  Illustrated.  2  volumes  in  one.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  00. 

MCCARTHY'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  A  History  of  Our  Own 
Times,  from  the  Accession  of  Queen  Victoria  to  the  General  Elec- 
tion of  1880.  By  JUSTIN  M'CARTIIT.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50; 
Half  Calf,  $6  00. 

M'CARTHY'S    SHORT  HISTORY  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     A 

Short  History  of  Our  Own  Times,  from  the  Accession  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria to  the  General  Election  of  1880.  By  JUSTIN  M'CARTHY,  M.P. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

M'CARTHY'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FOUtt  GEORGES.  A  History 
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Cloth,  $1  25.  (To  be  completed  in  Four  Volumes.) 


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ABBOTT'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The 
French  Revolution  of  1789,  as  viewed  in  the  Light  of  Republican 
Institutions.  By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$5  00  ;  Sheep,  $5  50  ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON.  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT.  Maps,  Illustrations,  and  Portraits.  2 
vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  00;  Sheep,  $11  00;  Half  Calf,  $14  50. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  AT  ST.  HELENA.  Napoleon  at  St. 
Helena;  or,  Anecdotes  and  Conversations  of  the  Emperor  during 
the  Years  of  his  Captivity.  Collected  from  the  Memorials  of  Las 
Casas,  O'Meara,  Montholon,  Antommarchi,  and  others.  By  JOHN 
S.  C.  ABBOTT.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00  ;  Sheep,  $5  50  ;  Half 
Calf,  $7  25. 

ABBOTT'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  The  History  of  Frederick 
the  Second,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT. 
Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

TROLLOPE'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  An  Autobiography.  By  AN- 
THONY TROLLOPE.  With  a  Portrait.  12rao,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

TROLLOPE'S  CICERO.  Life  of  Cicero.  By  ANTHONY  TROLLOPE. 
2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

FOLK-LORE  OF  SHAKESPEARE.  By  the  Rev.  T.  F.  TUISELTON 
DYER,  M.A.,  Oxon.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

WATSON'S  MARCUS  AURELIUS  ANTONINUS.  Marcus  Aureli- 
us  Antoninus.  By  PAUL  BARRON  WATSON.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth, 
$2  50. 

THOMSON'S  THE  GREAT  ARGUMENT.  The  Great  Argument ; 
or,  Jesus  Christ  in  the  Old  Testament.  By  W.  H.  THOMSON,  M.A., 
M.D.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

HUDSON'S  HISTORY  OF  JOURNALISM.  Journalism  in  the  United 
States,  from  1690  to  1872.  By  FREDERIC  HUDSON.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$5  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

SHELDON'S  HISTORY  OF  CHRISTIAN  DOCTRINE.  History 
of  Christian  Doctrine.  By  H.  C.  SHELDON,  Professor  of  Church  His- 
tory in  Boston  University.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  50  per  set. 

DEXTER'S  CONGREGATIONALISM.  The  Congregationalism  of 
the  Last  Three  Hundred  Years,  as  Seen  in  its  Literature :  with 
Special  Reference  to  certain  Recondite,  Neglected,  or  Disputed 
Passages.  With  a  Bibliographical  Appendix.  By  H.  M.  DEXTER. 
Large  8vo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 


Valuable  TTorkt  for  Public  and  Pritate  Libraries.  11 

SYMONDS'S  SKETCHES  AND  STUDIES  IN  SOUTHERN  EU- 
ROPE. By  JOHN  ADUINOTON  SYMONDS.  2  vols.,  Square  16mo, 
Cloth,  $4  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  50. 

SYMONDS'S  GREEK  POETS.  Studies  of  the  Greek  Poets.  By 
JOHN  ADDINOTON  SYMONDS.  2  vols.,  Square  16mo,  Cloth,  $3  50; 
Half  Calf,  8  7  00. 

MAHAFFY'S  GREEK  LITERATURE.  A  History  of  Classical 
Greek  Literature.  By  J.  P.  MAHAFFY.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$ 4  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  50. 

DU  CHAILLU'S  ASHANGO  LAND.  A  Journey  to  Ashango  Land, 
and  Further  Penetration  into  Equatorial  Africa.  By  PAUL  B. 
Du  CHAILLC.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

SIMCOX'S  LATIN  LITERATURE.  A  History  of  Latin  Literature, 
from  Ennius  to  Boethius.  By  GEOKGB  AUGUSTUS  SIMCOX,  M.A.  2 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

BARTLETT'S  FROM  EGYPT  TO  PALESTINE.  Through  Sinai, 
the  Wilderness,  and  the  South  Country.  Observations  of  a  Journey 
made  with  Special  Reference  to  the  History  of  the  Israelites.  By 
S.  C.  HAKTLKTT,  D.D.  Maps  and  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

KINGLAKE'S  CRIMEAN  WAR.  The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea  :  its 
Origin,  and  an  Account  of  its  Progress  down  to  the  Death  of  Lord 
Raglan.  By  ALEXANDER  WILLIAM  KINGLAKK.  With  Maps  and 
Plans.  Four  Volumes  now  ready.  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00  per  vol. 

NEWCOMB'S  POLITICAL  ECONOMY.  Principles  of  Political 
Economy.  By  SIMON  NKWCOMB,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Mathematics, 
U.  S.  Navy,  Professor  in  the  Johns  Hopkins  University,  pp.  xvi., 
548.  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

SHAKSPEARE.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  Shakspeare.  With  Notes. 
Engravings.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  f  4  00 ; 
Sheep,  $5  00.  In  one  vol.,  8vo,  Sheep,  $4  00. 

GENERAL  BEAUREGARD'S  MILITARY  OPERATIONS.  The 
Military  Operations  of  General  Beauregard  in  the  War  Between  the 
States,  1861  to  1865;  including  a  brief  Personal  Sketch,  and  a  Nar- 
rative of  his  Services  in  the  War  with  Mexico,  1846  to  1848.  By 
ALFRED  ROMAN,  formerly  Aide-de-Camp  on  the  Staff  of  General 
Beauregard.  With  Portraits,  &c.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $7  00 ;  Sheep, 
$9  00;  Half  Morocco,  $11  00;  Full  Morocco,  $15  00.  (Sold  only 
by  Subscription.) 


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NORDHOFF'S  COMMUNISTIC  SOCIETIES  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES.  The  Communistic  Societies  of  the  United  States,  from 
Personal  Visit  and  Observation  ;  including  Detailed  Accounts  of  the 
Economists,  Zoarites,  Shakers,  the  Amana,  Oneida,  Bethel,  Aurora, 
Icarian,  and  other  existing  Societies.  By  CHARLES  NORDHOFF.  Il- 
lustrations. 8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON.  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,  in- 
cluding a  Journal  of  a  Tour  to  the  Hebrides.  By  JAMES  BOSWELL. 
Edited  by  J.  W.  CROKER,  LL.D.,  F.E.S.  With  a  Portrait  of  Bos- 
well.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00;  Sheep,  $5  00. 

BROUGHAM'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY.  Life  and  Times  of  Henry, 
Lord  Brougham.  Written  by  Himself.  3  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $6  00. 

BOURNE'S  LOCKE.  The  Life  of  John  Locke.  By  H.  R.  Fox 
BOURNE.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

EARTH'S  NORTH  AND  CENTRAL  AFRICA.  Travels  and  Dis- 
coveries in  North  and  Central  Africa  :  being  a  Journal  of  an  Expe- 
dition undertaken  under  the  Auspices  of  H.B.M.'s  Government,  in 
the  Years  1849-1855.  By  HENRY  EARTH,  Ph.D.,  D.C.L.  Illus- 
trated. 3  vols,  8vo,  Cloth,  $12  00. 

BULWER'S  LIFE  AND  LETTERS.  Life,  Letters,  and  Literary 
Remains  of  Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton.  By  his  Son,  the  EARL 
OF  LYTTON  ("  Owen  Meredith").  Volume  I.  Illustrated.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $2  75. 

BULWER'S  HORACE.  The  Odes  and  Epodes  of  Horace.  A  Met- 
rical Translation  into  English.  With  Introduction  and  Commen- 
taries. With  Latin  Text  from  the  Editions  of  Orelli,  Macleane,  and 
Yonge.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

BULWER'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WORKS.  Miscellaneous  Prose 
Works  of  Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton.  In  Two  Volumes.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $3  50. 

PERRY'S   HISTORY    OF   THE   CHURCH   OF   ENGLAND.      A 

History  of  the  English  Church,  from  the  Accession  of  Henry  VIII. 
to  the  Silencing  of  Convocation.  By  G.  G.  PERRY,  M.A.  With  a 
Sketch  of  the  History  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  in  the 
United  States,  by  J.  A.  SPENCER,  S.T.D.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

FORSTER'S  LIFE  OF  DEAN  SWIFT.  The  Early  Life  of  Jona- 
than Swift  (1667-1711).  By  JOHN  FORSTEB.  With  Portrait.  8ro. 
Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $2  50. 


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